The Runaways
by illogical squeeks
Summary: Beckett's on the run from the law. Elizabeth's finding single motherhood harder then she thought. Forced unwillingly together, they must survive the madness that they've learned to call life... Sequel Post AWE
1. Discovery

THE RUNAWAYS

_the sequel nobody's been waiting for_

**NB:** So... welcome to the sequel of the Islanders! If you haven't read that one, you just might want to--otherwise this story wont make a lot of sense to you. For those of you who have read the story, this is a sequel to the original ending; obviously. There isn't much I can do for the other ending. (Due to an unprofessional botch-up on my part, the story ended up with two different endings. Aargh!) Anyway--I hope you enjoy! I know that these sequels are never as good as the originals... but hey, plot bunnies can be vicious.

* * *

ONE: Discovery

Midshipman Kelley was content. Not only was he clawing his way to the top of the naval ranks—for the _second_ time—at an impressive pace (soon he was hoping for a promotion to Purser, or even Boatswain; then he'd have his own men), but it seemed that he had gotten away with everything he'd ever done; he was clean. His old life was gone, washed away.

Or so he thought. But these things can come back to haunt you.

He went about on his usual duties, smiling and nodding at various men whilst thinking about how much of an ingrate they were, and generally keeping an eye out for any opportunities that may arise. After all, he needed every chance he could get to prove himself 'worthy', didn't he? Though it was rather annoying, having to do all of this work again. And even then, he'd _really_ have to work hard to even get invited to _stand outside_ of an upper-class gala. But he was certain that he could find a way.

The sun warmed his face as he stepped up onto the deck. He smiled to himself, striding across the wooden planks, ready to put some poor new recruit in place about their rope-tying skills, when suddenly the door to the captain's cabin creaked open, and a voice called out behind him.

"Oy, Beckett!" Without really thinking, he spun around to face Lieutenant-Commander Dawkins.

_I just fell for the oldest trick in the book,_ he realized, as several men jumped on him.

----------

"But this is just... ridiculous," Hunter protested, carefully putting the two letters down. Captain Williams was looking at him disapprovingly over his desk. "There's no way to link this letter to me... do you listen to _all_ anonymous advice sent to you, then, sir?" Hunter tried his best to sound respectful, but he was never the sort for that. He looked down at the letter, knowing _exactly_ who it was that had sent it.

_Here's a hint for you—you might want to watch that Hunter Kelley. He looks a lot like Cutler Beckett doesn't he? Here's a recent letter, including his plans and his signature... showing him to be very much alive. But how did Cutler Beckett survive a supposed failure on his part, to rejoin the navy? How could he allow an entire fleet as large as his to be defeated by two ships alone? Makes you think of conspiracy, doesn't it?_

_Signed, King._

King. King Elizabeth. _Pirate_ King Elizabeth Swann—the little brat! He hadn't expected her to _actually_ send in the letter; though, admittedly, the comment about her eating it to get rid of the evidence had been a joke. He'd presumed that she was too... well, nice. He knew her well enough, and though she swanned around haughtily and looked down on everyone, she was soft. Still, there was no way that this letter could prove anything.

"We know that it's out of order to follow the advice from an anonymous letter found in the naval recruitment station in Amion, but... you do look like him," Captain Williams squinted, and Hunter shrugged, "And we have reasons to believe that your past is purely fabrication."

"What do you mean?" Hunter asked, coolly adjusting a cuff.

"For a start, we could find no family to vouch for you..." The captain said smoothly. Hunter stiffened.

"You went looking?" He asked, surprised that they would put so much effort into finding him. That simple letter must have begun making people think. He supposed it _was_ a little suspicious, him failing to give one simple order and thus dooming his crew, and then being discovered very much alive. If it weren't him in the position, _he'd_ be suspicious. But this was ridiculous! Why wasn't it simply thrown in the bin?

Still, there was no proof of who he was. Certainly, he had vaguely considered the fact that Elizabeth could use the letter against him, but he had lots of arguments at his whim, and after returning her boat and giving her a head start, he figured that she would be... _indebted_ to him.

"Yes. A few people said that they remembered seeing you around, but there was no 'Kelley' family there to speak of." The captain narrowed his eyes, and Hunter shrugged.

"We lived a little bit out of the village," He said, remembering the town that he and Elizabeth had gone to visit often. That was where Mrs Dawson had lived, and the Carrot girl. He squashed the memories as soon as they arrived—they had no place in his head at the moment. He needed his wits about him.

"Why did you turn, when the Lieutenant-Commander called out 'Beckett', then, eh?" Captain Williams raised an eyebrow.

"When the Lieutentant-Commander calls out _anything_, it is our place to turn to attention, is it not?" Hunter shrugged. "And the letter from 'Cutler Beckett' could be forged," he insisted.

"Yes. But the signature is very accurate," Captain Williams took the time to glare at him at this point, "And the handwriting is _very_ similar to yours."

"That's not proof, sir," Hunter said, tagging the last word on for the sake of respect, "I have similar handwriting to Beckett... so I must be him?" He raised an eyebrow, "I don't think that's very fair."

"You're extraordinarily well-spoken for a farmers boy," the captain said, pulling a smug expression. Hunter looked at the men standing guard next to him.

"I learned," He shrugged, "To get far in life, you have to take on the airs and graces of the pale folk—you understand, don't you?" Hunter asked, with an airy wave of the hand. Captain Williams raised an eyebrow. Not convinced.

"No."

"It was a rhetorical question," Hunter said—and then bit his lip.

"Listen, Midshipman," Captain Williams said, staring at him distrustfully, "You are to be kept down in the brig until the recently widowed Lady Audrey Beckett arrives."

"Who's she?" Hunter asked, stonily.

"She's your mother," Captain Williams hissed, and then all Hunter saw was black.

---------

Well, wasn't that just bloody rude of them? There was no need to knock him out—he would have come down here on his own. Well, perhaps. Midshipman Kelley was musing his chances of getting out of this one, a couple of days later, nursing a blow to his eye, when suddenly Lieutenant-Commander Dawkins arrived in the brig, jangling a pair of keys. Hunter Kelley held his breath—he'd been having nightmarish fantasies of dying by the hangman's noose. He couldn't let that happen—that would be ridiculous.

"Lady Beckett is here, Kelley," Lieutenant-Commander Dawkins said stiffly. Hunter stood up, spreading his arms out.

"Allan," Hunter used his first name, trying for a sense of camaraderie. Hunter had always been a charming chap—witty and smooth enough to gain the friendship of many, many men. He could, perhaps, use this to his advantage. "This is all... well, rubbish. I'm not Cutler Beckett! This is ludicrous!"

"I have my orders, Kelley, and you have yours," Dawkins said, though he sounded slightly uncertain as he held a pair of shackles aloft.

Hunter was insulted.

"I'm insulted," He said.

"I'm sorry, Midshipman. Ex-Midshipman." Hunter opened and closed his mouth, and then frowned.

"So this little accusation has cost me my position. Fairly well," He said, darkly. Oh, would Elizabeth pay for this little stunt. But right now, he had to forget Elizabeth. He didn't know Elizabeth.

"Alright, I'll spare you the shackles," Dawkins leaned closer, "But don't try anything, Kelley. There are men with rifles up there. They're taking this very seriously." Hunter furrowed his brow. He was a little surprised, to be honest. Why all of this madness? He sighed and walked up, out of the darkness of the brig, and then noticed that the sun was setting. It was getting late.

"Where are we?" He asked, looking around. He could see a port, not so far away. _I could probably swim that_, he mused. Dawkins gripped his shoulder tightly, and did not answer.

As he was marched into the middle of the cabin, Hunter saw a lady standing, looking out of a window. He looked at her blankly. Blonde hair was swept up, piled onto her head, and coming down in tight, artificial ringlets. Her face was white, with garishly bright makeup spread over it, practically an inch thick. She turned, and stood still for a moment, her head slightly tilted.

"Is this him?" She asked, in a faint voice. _Always the drama-queen_, Hunter thought to himself. She stepped towards him, cautiously, as if afraid he would bite her. Hunter couldn't help but wonder at how old she looked, no matter how hard she tried to disguise it.

"Yes," Captain Williams said from somewhere behind Hunter. He spun around to look at him, and a soldier quickly nudged him, making him face the woman in front of him again.

"I... I'm not... I'm not sure..." Lady Audrey squinted, and then walked around him slightly, looking at him in profile. Hunter kept himself calm, and just stared ahead, even folding his arms. He slouched slightly—wondering if a woman like Lady Audrey Beckett would even notice a detail like that. She wasn't the most observant of women, and they weren't the closest of families.

"Say something," Snapped Captain Williams, though his venom was leaving. If even his own mother was unconvinced, then perhaps the letter was nothing more then a simple lie. Hunter was faintly thinking about how he had changed in looks rather a lot since the last time he had seen his mother—he had a nice bruise on his face from being knocked out, too.

"My name is Hunter Kelley," He said, adding a slight roughness to his voice. Lady Audrey frowned.

"I don't think this is him," She said, finally, "He just isn't... I don't know. I just don't think this is my son," She gave a sad sigh, and an odd expression crossed Hunter's face, for just a moment. Then he turned towards the captain triumphantly.

"May I have my position as midshipman back, then?" He asked, "All of this has been... _insulting_." The captain was about to speak, when he was interrupted.

"Cutler," Lady Audrey blurted, looking at the man who could be her son, "Cutler... is it...? It's you. It really is you..." She stepped forwards, and Hunter smartly stepped back. Then, he noticed the men on either side of him staring at him in surprise, and the captain smiling smugly. It was over. All over.

"Hello, mother," Beckett said, as brightly as he could manage, "Father's finally kicked the bucket then, hmm?"

* * *

**NB: **...I decided that this was going to be one of those stories that got straight to it. ; More Elizabeth next chapter. 


	2. Notoriety

TWO: Notoriety

Beckett dodged as a soldier ran at him with a pair of shackles. Christ, these people really meant business! They wanted to kill him! He backed towards the cabin door, looking around at the people in the cabin.

"Look, can't we talk about this?" He suggested, "Why are you all after me? I haven't done anything wrong!"

"You lied to the royal navy, and impersonated a man who doesn't exist. That's not exactly legal," spat the captain, advancing on him with a sword, as Lady Audrey stood, shocked, in the background. Beckett shot her a pleading look—she was never the best of mothers, but surely watching her son being skewered in front of her was just taking it a bit far?

"I could hardly walk in here saying who I really was, could I? You would all suspect me of aiding and abetting piracy, or some other ludicrous thing," He shrugged, looking slightly apologetic.

"Well, then why didn't you give the order to fire, then?" Asked Captain Williams, stepping around in front of him. "Why did you let the _Endeavour_ be blown to bits by pirates, without a fight? Hmm?" The captain grinned, as Beckett's eyes slid to the floor—the hole in his argument.

"I don't know," He said.

"Ha. Wrong answer," Captain Williams flicked the sword towards Beckett, "Go down to the brig without a fight like a nice boy, will you? You'll probably face the gallows for this—treacherous swine,"

"That's taking it a bit far," Beckett said, wrinkling his brow and looking slightly insulted. The captain glowered at him, and brought his sword back... and suddenly, he was falling over backwards, landing with a thump—being pulled by a pale pair of hands. Audrey Beckett looked up to her son from the floor where she'd fallen with the strength of dragging the captain down (she wasn't the strongest of women), her eyes on her son, as the captain collapsed to the floor, and the redcoats all turned towards her.

"Don't get caught," she whispered.

"Thanks, mother!" Beckett said with a broad smile, before quickly skipping out of the door. About six soldiers charged after him, and the captain leapt to his feet, glaring at Lady Audrey Beckett.

"You were obstructing the means to justice!" He bellowed. She backed away from him as he shouted again, "You were _obstructing the means to justice_!"

Beckett, meanwhile, charged across the deck, swinging around barrels and around various other obstacles until he came to some rigging. He looked out at the port, twinkling a little while away—he decided that he'd _have_ to swim it. But without dying, he noted, as a few men dashed into view.

He leapt into some rigging, and then slid out across a rope that was fastened along the fore boom, which was jutting out over the ocean. _I don't need this right now,_ he thought tiredly, as he clambered the rope, holding onto the wooden section at waist-height for balance. One more try to make them listen to him.

"Look," He explained, as one of the men jumped onto the fore boom's fastening rope as well, "If you climb much further, our combined weight will probably drop us into the sea. Will you hold still a second?" The man grunted, and glared at him. "I'm not on the pirate's side! I've spent my entire life killing them! Why on earth would I be...?" Beckett stopped as the man brought out a sword, and stepped onto the wooden post of the boom.

"You will be tried fairly in a court, if you would just come peacefully," The man said, "If you lose your trial—you will most probably be hanged." Beckett visibly paled... and then the man held his sword towards the rope on which Beckett was balancing, with his hands holding onto the steady boom next to him; though it wouldn't be strong enough to prevent a fall. Beckett looked from the sword, to the rope, to the crashing sea below him.

"Oh, bollocks," He said softly.

Then, there was a loud twanging sound... followed by a splash.

----------

It was the morning after, and Elizabeth sauntered along the road, smiling softly to herself, with William in her arms. Life was bearable, now. Things were becoming better. Slightly better. She had a room in an inn, and a temporary job—though she wasn't sure how good for William hanging around in a pub was. She was the barmaid, of course... she was determined to stay true to Will, no matter what.

She was walking down quite a high-society street, near the top of Amion, which was the town she had been staying in for a small while now. She looked up, and saw a title in a newspaper that made her blood go cold. The _Daily Courant_ boasted loud and clear—_Ex-Lord Cutler Beckett Alive, and At Large_.

Cradling little William closer to her, she stumbled towards the shop, which was small and smelt slightly of tobacco. The door tinkled slightly as she stepped in. The man behind the counter shot her a disapproving look—doubtlessly wondering why such a poor-looking woman would enter a shop as expensive as this—but let her continue in. She stepped towards a shelf on which various newspapers were displayed; and they all had the same subject on their front pages.

She bit her lip, bobbing William up and down, as a rush of guilt poured into her stomach, making it clench. She'd sent the letter in as more of a stab at Beckett then anything else; but she hadn't really thought it would come to anything. But it looked like her jibe had worked all too well.

"Are you going to buy anything?" The man behind the counter demanded.

"Oh... no," Elizabeth said, with a tight smile, before walking back towards the door. The man sniffed as she stepped outside again, into the cool breeze. She looked down at William. "He deserved it, didn't he?" She whispered to him. William remained silent, and oddly wise, for a baby.

The words '_to be tried and hung_', '_his mother Audrey Beckett imprisoned_' and '_dead or alive_' all seemed to jump out at her. They thought he was working for the pirates, as some sort of spy! No, no, that was all wrong! She only wanted him to get into a bit of trouble and embarrassment...

With a pang, one of the sentences her eyes had skimmed over shot to her head in all of it's resounding and painful glory. _Last seen jumping ship near the port of Coston._ Coston was the next town up. And though she knew it was stupid... Elizabeth didn't feel safe. She wanted to get further away—there was no way she was getting caught up with Cutler Beckett again. She shook her head, and began making her way back to the inn.

A job as a barmaid was nothing she wouldn't miss. Time to get out of here, and fast... but where to go? She smiled, as a thought came to her. Where else?

----------

But let's go back to the previous night, when Beckett had been discovered.

"Beckett's gone, sir," a soldier said, looking slightly smug. Lady Audrey was backed into a corner, with three men standing guard in front of her, which _she_ felt was a bit much. She turned slightly towards a mirror, wondering if her makeup was smudged from the little struggle that had insured earlier on.

"Overboard?" Asked the captain.

"Yessir," the soldier nodded enthusiastically. The captain cracked into a grin.

"Excellent," he said, and then he turned towards the Lady Beckett, with a slight smile, "Your son will probably die in the water, to put it bluntly," he grinned, and Lady Audrey stared at him as if he'd just slapped her around the face. "But if he doesn't... well. He'll soon be caught." He knew that the shores would be being scoured for his body tomorrow.

"He's done no wrong! He's innocent!" Audrey cried.

"If he's innocent... why did he run?" Captain Williams smiled grimly. Oh, it may seem cruel, but there were a good few promotions in it for him if he were to get a fugitive like Beckett behind bars. He'd received the order from very high up—the new Lord, apparently, was very set on getting Beckett behind bars; probably in case he tried to steal his old position back. It wasn't very fair; but that's life.

"He didn't run, he was pushed," Lady Audrey glared at the captain, "I saw the way you were threatening him!"

"Lady Beckett," Captain Williams said, "Your reputation preceded you here. Don't you know what everyone thinks of you?" He gave a slight laugh, "They think you're a whore. An airhead. A brainless woman clutching onto money because it's the only thing she has..." he smirked, as Audrey's mouth dropped open.

"How... how dare you talk to me that way?" She demanded.

"I think you'll find that any of us can talk to you however we please," Captain Williams said, "The high-positioned husband and son of yours are gone. You have nobody to protect you." Captain Williams smiled, "You'll hang for this, Lady Beckett. Obstructing the means to justice. Protecting a man accused of aiding piracy and betraying the King. Oh... you'll hang."

* * *

**NB:** Hmm--overreacting much? Well, never fear, for there is a reason for that! One that you shall find out. Meanwhile; heh heh, I just had to add Beckett being twanged into the ocean. Thanks for the reviews:D I think that sequels tend to get sort of corny and overused, so just tell me if I'm messing this up... I was going to say something important/interesting here, but I just completely forgot it. Uh, oh well! 


	3. Blackmail

THREE: Blackmail

Beckett clawed his way onto the pier, clambering up the stony banks, and then collapsed onto the wooden decking with a wet slap, gasping for breath. His teeth chattered in the cold, and his fingers felt numb. During his time in the water, he'd had to shed his coat, belt, sheath, and boots—and still, he felt like he'd barely made it. He could still feel the waves pushing and pulling, even though he was completely numb. Once he'd caught his breath, he staggered clumsily to his feet, looking around himself.

There was the town, just down the pier—Beckett was pretty certain that there would be plenty of pubs still open at this hour. He shook his head, and then began the long, stumbling journey down to Coston.

----------

When the pub door crashed open and a soaking wet man staggered in, nobody thought much of it. He sat himself down by the fire, letting the crackling blaze warm him up... as much as he could.

Ericka Peters looked on from the bar, as the man shivered on. She hadn't really wanted to be a barmaid; and her father knew that she was just a little bit too soft for the job, but she had to anyway, as he couldn't afford to pay for workers at the _Grimoire and the Chant_, and they were barely living on what they earned already anyway. Ericka's eyes slid towards her sister, Jodie.

"Mind the bar," she finally said to her, and then she picked her way across the half-empty tavern, until she reached the man in front of the fire. She coughed, and he looked up at her, startled, before looking away again rather quickly. Odd behaviour. "Are you alright, sir?" She asked.

"I fell off of the pier," the man said, his teeth chattering, his curly hair plastered to his head, "And now I can't remember anything. What is this place?"

"The _Grimoire and the Chant_..." Ericka said, earnestly, "In Coston."

"Coston," the man frowned—the place did ring a bell. "Whereabouts is Coston?"

"Well... it's near... uh, let's see, Delbound, Breuing Docks, and Amion..." The last name rang a bell. Beckett struggled to remember it—Amion, Amion... of course! _An anonymous letter found in the naval recruitment station in Amion_—it was where the letter had been found! Which meant Elizabeth was there, or somewhere near there!

"Please, could you lend me some clothes, or something?" Beckett asked, turning pleading eyes towards Ericka, "I have to get to Breuing Docks, and fast." Telling them a false name should help him, once the men began searching for him. He had to act fast.

"Oh, uh... certainly. My brother left to go sailing—we've got some clothes of his left over." Beckett smiled and nodded vigorously, his hair sending water flying over the floor around him.

"You can have some of the leftover soup from dinner too, if you like," Ericka beamed, always striving to be helpful, and noticing how this man's teeth were chattering. She knew the dangers of being in the ocean in the cold of night; he could die of the cold if left on his own. Quickly, she grabbed his arm, and pulled him towards the very back of the inn, and through a door to some living space.

About half an hour later, Beckett was fed, clothed, and had also managed to sneak a few coins to his pocket. What?! He needed it more then _they_ did, didn't he? It was with a thankful smile and promises to return the clothes that he left the tavern. _What a sap_, he thought to himself, waving goodbye to Ericka Peters.

He felt much better now—not so numb and cold and wet, for a start. He'd also snagged a bottle of some sort of alcohol on the way out; to 'keep him warm'. And he felt he deserved a drink... his life was utterly ruined in every way imaginable, after all.

As he purposefully strode down the dark street, he noticed a drunk man, passed out on the roadside. After quickly checking that he wasn't being watched, he bent down and looked through the man's pockets and so on, and came across what he'd been looking for—a gun.

"This is for you, Elizabeth," he muttered to himself, taking a swig from the bottle.

----------

The sun was high by the time he arrived at Amion—he'd been walking all night and most of the day, and avoiding most main roads. He was aware of a buzz around Coston, and redcoats were everywhere—he kept his cloak up, his face down, and kept to the back streets. He was pretty certain that the pub he'd stayed in was being scoured by redcoats by now, seeing as he matched their descriptions perfectly; soaking wet, curly, dark blonde hair, naval uniform, and all of that.

He'd ditched the clothes given to him by Ericka, and grabbed some others by not-very-legal means, including a slightly ragged cloak... not exactly lawful, but he figured that he was already so far on the dark side of the law that he wouldn't be able to find his way back, so why not just commit another couple of crimes? It wouldn't help his case, true... but what more could they suspect him of?

It looked like he'd slipped out of Coston just in time—word had it from other travellers (he wanted to keep informed... he simply hoped they wouldn't recognize him) that there was now a barricade around Coston, and people exiting and entering had to be examined.

_They're making an awfully big fuss out of this,_ Beckett thought moodily as he stalked through another field, avoiding the main roadways, _I wonder why?_

----------

Lord Augustus Julio Leonard was the new lord of the East India Trading Company. He liked his position very much. Very much indeed. While most had taken their hats off in respect at the news of Lord Beckett's death, he'd been doing a happy little dance inside. Because he knew exactly who was going to be chosen to take Lord Beckett's empty slot—and that person was him.

He'd worked hard all of his life, but there was already a fairly successful lord, so there was no call for a promotion for him, which had always irked him. It was a shame that Lord Beckett was dead and all, but it was the circle of life; he was pretty certain that if they'd been in switched positions, Lord Beckett would be doing the same.

It was a dog-eat-dog world. He'd been after Lord Beckett's position for a while now—and Lord Beckett had known it. But Beckett had been oh-so-smarter then him; as he had proven, by beating him at chess in thirteen moves.

"Don't worry," he'd said with a smirk, "There aren't many who can win against me."

An immensely slappable man, as far as Augustus could see—but he'd always had women fawning over him, for some reason. _Everyone_ wanted a dance with Lord Beckett; oh, so charming, so witty, and most of all... _rich_. It made him sick. He was such a lucky, smarmy _git_. Which was the reason every male in the upper class society hated him. He had money beyond imagination; everything about him was copiously lavish; his clothes, his homes, his taste in food...

And, suddenly, he was back. _Back from the dead._ The letter hadn't been taken too seriously at first—but after a couple of weeks, it had gotten through to people higher up. People higher up who had met Cutler Beckett, and this new recruit who was clambering up the ranks pretty darn fast. Only three months or so, and he was already being considered for a promotion to boatswain! And not only that—but he'd left the small patrol vessel that he'd first been recruited in, and moved up through the ship ranks too, until coming to one captained by one of his associates, Captain Williams.

"What's all the fuss about some anonymous letter?" Augustus—_Lord_ Augustus Leonard—had asked with a shrug, the brandy spinning in his glass. "It's hardly believable if the person didn't even leave their name... just 'King'."

"Well..." the officer dug a toe into the rich carpet, seeming embarrassed, now that Lord Leonard had put it that way, "The thing is, apparently, he does _look_ a lot like the recent Lord Beckett... and take a look at this..." The man then held aloft two pieces of parchment; one a letter from Cutler Beckett to someone whose name had been scribbled out, and one the contract that Hunter Kelley had signed when joining the navy.

Their writing was nearly identical. Lord Leonard had looked for a moment, and then a slow smile had spread over his face. If this was Cutler Beckett—if it was—it would be brilliant. _Not so smart now, are you, hmm?_ But at the same time... well, if Beckett played his cards right, he could be sprung right back to his old position, the same arrogant tosser, just perhaps a little more embarrassed then before.

Lord Leonard didn't want that happening.

"Excellent," he said, "Check out everything this man has said about his past life—his city, his family, childhood friends, anything you can dig up from the place of birth he's listed here. _If_ this is our man... then he must be hiding something. And the _Endeavour_ did go down without any struggle, at all. Almost as if he _let the pirates win_... yes!" A huge grin spread over Lord Leonard's face, "This is perfect. It'll be the biggest scandal of the year... if he _is_ Beckett. I'm almost hoping he is, now."

"Yessir," the redcoat had said, saluting.

And so, all behind Hunter Kelley's back, a small and discreet operation had began; and it had turned out that... _gosh_, there _was_ no Kelley family listed as ever living there! And suspicions had risen. And now he had him.

Right where he wanted him. Or, not. Because Beckett had gotten away—yes, Captain Williams had succeeded in making Beckett run, and thus marking him as most probably guilty; but it seemed he had ran a little bit _too_ far. No body had turned up, and though he could have sank to the bottom of the ocean, it was doubtful. And it wasn't too long a swim, either. So they had began a big searching of Coston, and even the area around it. The redcoats were having a hard time flushing him out... which was only to be expected. He was a smart man, after all.

"We still have the Lady Audrey Beckett under lock and key, don't we?" Lord Leonard asked, back in the present, raising an eyebrow. He was replied with several nods. "Well... if we were to sentence her to hang... Beckett's sure to come running, isn't he?"

Threatening his mother's life as a trap? Sure, it was low.

But so was Beckett.

* * *

**NB:** Oh dear. Beckett has actually managed to annoy someone to insanity. Elizabeth's in a bit of trouble too, ne? Tune in next time for some time with Audrey Beckett, and the grand reunion--it's bound to crash and burn... 


	4. Contemplation

FOUR: Contemplation

Elizabeth had left the inn quickly, but had realized that it was getting dark. She had fastened the bag around her back, cradled the snoozing William in her arms, and began to walk, with no real idea of where she was going. She simply couldn't stand the thought of her baby and her being so close to where a 'wanted' Cutler Beckett was.

She knew him. And she felt that, well, he wouldn't take incredibly kindly to having her sending the letter in and all. She'd just never have suspected that it would have escalated so much! She'd felt that it _may_ have brought suspicions up enough to have him recognized as Cutler Beckett, but even then, she wouldn't have thought that he'd be threatened by _death_.

Not that she cared.

Because she didn't.

Anyhow, she knew she had to keep sharp, so she was quickly getting out of here. She wondered vaguely what she would do if Beckett was caught, and sentenced to hang. Nothing, probably. She had William to care for, and a life to lead. She still had money that she had ferreted from her old home in Port Royale, but it certainly wouldn't last forever.

So, towards the very north edge of Amion—the edge furthest away from Coston, which was apparently where Beckett was—she found a barn, which she... not broke into, per se, just borrowed for the night. She made herself comfortable, snuggled with little William, and listened to the wind outside.

And she thought for a while.

----------

Audrey Beckett had never thought she would end up like this.

She was a lady, after all—born upper class, married upper class, she did everything that was expected of a lady; nothing less, and, well... nothing more. Her late husband, Nathaniel Beckett, had been a smart cookie; just like his son. She'd always felt a little out of her depth when they started talking business.

Still, their family had been... a... perhaps not a happy one; they certainly weren't very close. But back in her younger days, during her and Nathaniel's courtship, it had all been so exciting, so new, to know that she—the 'airheaded' Audrey—would be the one to win his hand in marriage. The Beckett family had always been well-respected; the males were all dominant, intelligent and powerful. Her husband had... at least at the beginning of their marriage... been everything she could have hoped for.

Of course, as many high-class marriages do, it had began to deteriorate once the truth had dawned on both of them—a realization that she loved to spend money more then she loved _him_, and that he preferred work to a night in with his wife. It always got on her nerves, the way that his job was so much more important then her; it was a disease that infected many marriages.

Bored with having a husband that was always away and a life of luxury that provided everything she could ever want at her command, she began dabbling again with other men—just to add a dash of quick romance to her life, a small excitement for her to savour. At the time, she'd never really thought about what an... observant boy Cutler had grown to be. How her actions could have affected him.

Her marriage to Nathaniel was dead in the water—but they had to stay together. A divorce was unheard of; it was scandalous. He wouldn't allow it to soil his good name, and she couldn't allow it to soil hers. They had generations upon their shoulders; they had to preserve the purity of their bloodlines. It was the way it worked, perhaps the only reason Nathaniel Beckett had married in the first place. So they remained in their uncomfortable, polite marriage.

As for her son... well, she'd always felt the waves of dislike practically pouring out of him, after the age of about eleven. They had nothing in common—they simply didn't get on. So she usually left him in the care of a nanny, and his signs of affection to her never bypassed a polite nod; a warm smile was extremely rare.

Young Cutler Beckett. She could still remember him, in his small, fitted waistcoats and ruffles, unruly hair combed back as much as it could be, like a little doll being showcased. That was how children were—you dressed them up and displayed them proudly; designer babies. It wasn't like this in _all_ high-up families, but once you bypassed the sub-high-up families and the just-high-up families, once you got to the ring of the most respected and wealthy families in the British Empire... there was nothing else you knew.

He'd always been a bossy little chap; striding around the house in his dinky booties, ordering the servants around, acting like he owned the place already—he could look down on people several feet taller then him by the time he was six. He was loud, domineering and obnoxious—and they couldn't have been more proud.

There was a slight hole in that logic.

Cutler was an only child; which never helped matters, apparently. Oh, she'd had a miscarriage once... but the baby had not been her husband's, so it was just as well, really. A little baby that had never lived; but it had still wrecked her marriage beyond repair. She wondered if this had affected her son—apparently, the slightest thing could. But she never listened to that sort of thing.

Oh, that miscarriage was where it had all gone wrong; her marriage had already been on the rocks, but Beckett—who had been a young adult at the time—had just looked at her when she told him the news, as if he knew her every secret.

Audrey Beckett sighed, coming out of her reverie, and looked around the cell she was being held in. The walls were solid, if not slightly mossy stone, and she was underground, so merited no windows—just a thick wooden door, which—even when unlocked—was immovable to her. She'd never needed to be _strong_. The walls were damp and horrible, and the room was empty apart from the sturdy wooden bench that she now sat on, her legs together, her hands folded on her lap modestly.

When her son had died, she had been upset—upset, but not _that_ upset. It was always upsetting when you expected to be very upset, but then were unpleasantly surprised when you realized that you weren't actually as upset as you felt you should have been. She felt guilty for the emptiness that she had felt; and the tears she cried at the bodiless funeral were simply ones of a ravaging guiltiness that ate at her heart, little voices poking at her, asking her how she couldn't even feel the tsunami of remorse that she imagined that she should at the funeral of her own _son_, when tears came to her eyes at the thought of her favourite dress being ripped.

This made her cry all the harder. She was hysterical at the funeral—and people had, of course, taken it the wrong way. _'Completely inconsolable, poor woman,'_ a man had commented behind a hand at the funeral. She'd had to leave, with Nathaniel Beckett probably slightly surprise that she was so upset.

It had all seemed so... far away from her, back then... somehow, it had, actually, been _more_ upsetting when she'd found him alive—all of her loss had suddenly hit home, and with the realization that he was still existing, had rushed in a sense of purpose. An odd, motherly purpose that she had never felt before... and when the captain had threatened his life, she had realized that there was no way she could allow that to happen.

And now she was trapped in a dark cell, wondering if her son was alive—or if he'd been drowned in the ocean. She sighed, and the lonely sound echoed around the cell, like whispering ghosts.

She didn't know what to think.

----------

Ericka Peters was in shock, as she described everything to the redcoat in front of her. Cuter Beckett. _Lord_ Cutler Beckett, now a fugitive—_the_ Cutler Beckett had been in her tavern. In her home. He was _in her brother's breeches_. It was totally insane.

"Oh, well, the jacket he's wearing is dark blue with white lining," she gabbled, twisting her apron in her hands, "And he said he was heading for Breuing Docks, he asked where it was, yes..."

----------

Beckett had been asking around quite a lot, if anyone had seen a woman—yea high, blonde hair, baby in tow?—and had gained fairly little result. He'd finally arrived in Amion, and was sneaking from tavern to tavern, trying not to be seen by anyone who looked official. Finally, though, he got a result.

"Oh, yes," the lady behind the bar leaned forwards, nodding her head, cheaply-curled hair bouncing, "She used ta work 'ere. But why do you want ta know?"

"I'm her husband," Beckett replied earnestly, "I've been at sea, and I heard news that she'd given birth. I _have_ to find her." He kept his face pointed slightly downwards, in the hopes that she wouldn't go on to describe exactly what he looked like to any passing officer. It could happen. He coughed, and felt himself sway slightly; he wasn't, as such, sober.

"Oh, oh right! A'ight then—she left by the north road, ya know? Go up that-a-way."

"Alright," Beckett nodded, "Where does that lead? I don't know this place too well," he tried a small smile. The barmaid leaned forwards on the bar, her arms folded.

"Well, up that way's like... Gingerham, Fallsbridge, and after a bit, Port Royale too..." Beckett looked up at her.

Port Royale. Of course. Elizabeth was running home.

"Thank you," he said with a smile, and then he turned and quickly left the tavern. She couldn't have gotten that far yet—and if he went quickly, he could easily catch her up.

----------

The sun had set when the barn door burst open. Elizabeth sat up quickly, looking over at baby William in the hay behind her—his sleep remained miraculously undisturbed. She looked over to the door, not recognizing the man at first; she thought it was perhaps a farmer come to tell her off for stopping in his barn without permission.

But then she recognized him.

Oh, did she recognize him.

* * *

**NB:** Thanks for the reviews, I'm so glad about the positive response to the story! I hope Elizabeth and Beckett still retain their somewhat original characteristics; and that they are believably canon. That's always worried me about this series, heh. A large chunk of Audrey Beckett in this chapter, hope you didn't mind. The next chapter contains a lot of hostility, drunk and disorderly behavour, and a complete lack of trust. Wont that be fun? 


	5. Hostility

FIVE: Hostility

"I hate you, Elizabeth Swann," the man at the door said, grabbing a gun from his belt. Elizabeth stared at him, biting a lip.

"Beckett," she said, carefully, "How did you find me?"

"I have my ways," he said charismatically, completely not mentioning the fact that it was complete chance that he'd found her as he'd spent the last half an hour or so stumbling through fields, and had decided that a barn would be wonderful right about now.

"Oh..."

"You just ruined my second life," Beckett nodded, "Do you know that, because of you, I've _died_ a grand total of... three times now? That's just nasty."

"I didn't mean for all of that to happen, it was..." Elizabeth noticed Beckett leaning slightly to the left, and then grabbing the doorframe for support. She frowned. "Have you been drinking?" She demanded. There was a pause.

"...maybe," Beckett said, noncommittally. "It doesn't matter, though. I've never let drink affect my judgement." There was a pronounced slur on the last word. (That is a brilliant oxymoron. Go use it.)

Good god. How far into the bottle _was_ he?

"Beckett, look..." Elizabeth started, when Beckett—in one, jerky movement—held the gun aloft, pointing it directly at her head. Elizabeth thought quickly, and then quickly picked up the small bundle of blankets that was William, holding him closer to her chest, and looked at Beckett through sad eyes. Hey, it could work—he'd been quite fond of the little thing.

"You and that baby," Beckett growled—but to her delight, he lowered the gun.

----------

_Bloody thing doesn't work anyway,_ Beckett thought, as he stuck the gun into his belt. That would show him for picking weaponry off of some drunk on the streets—he'd tried it experimentally on his way here, and it had simply clicked and cracked a few times, but failed to spit any bullet out.

"Why did you send the letter, Elizabeth?" Beckett asked, cocking his head, "I thought that you might, for about a second—then I decided you were too 'nice'. Huh."

"Look, I didn't know it would be taken so seriously," Elizabeth sighed, "I just wanted to publicly humiliate you, not get you wanted by every redcoat in the country," she scratched the back of her head, uncomfortably.

She hadn't seen Beckett since that fateful morning that she had seen him, rowing away from her island—a man who she had grown to respect and value as a friend. He had shattered it all in his decision to leave her on her own; and had driven the nail in deeper with his threats of handing her over. No, she couldn't trust this man; and she knew it now.

"Well, next time, you really should think about it," Beckett said, waving an arm in a manner that was typical of him, "Because I always thought in my new life, somehow that I wouldn't—oh, I don't know, end up being hung by the government," he shrugged, "Pfft! A bit of a crazy idea, huh?"

"I get it, alright?!" Elizabeth argued—and in her arms, William stirred, and started to whimper and move around. She cradled him, shushing the five-month-old form of baby William. She tapped his nose, and he quietened down after a small yip.

"Seeing as it's all your fault, I'm staying with you," Beckett said, beaming at her. Elizabeth's head jerked up, and she stared at him, too horrified for words. In truth, Beckett knew that she was the closest thing to an ally he had to run to—to be frank, he had nobody else, which was a touch sad. Mercer had always kept the contacts with the lower class. Also, he was quite certain that he might just be pardoned if he handed in the ex-Pirate King; his brain was deviously whirring once more.

"Oh, no you aren't," Elizabeth said, shaking her head.

"Oh, yes I am," Beckett insisted.

"Beckett!" Elizabeth snarled, "You'd be putting my life, as well as William's, at risk! You're wanted! There are newspaper headlines—_posters_!"

"There are posters already?" Beckett asked, dumbly. It had only been a day! Elizabeth nodded, and put William down, pulling a rolled up piece of parchment from a small bag, quickly flattening it out and showing it to him. Beckett nearly screamed out loud—there was a little hand-drawn picture of him, and the words; _Wanted, For crimes againste the Kings Crown and Aiding and Abetting Pyrates, Large Reward._ Aiding and abetting pirates, eh? _That_ sounded familiar.

"See?" Elizabeth said triumphantly.

"Does it say how much the reward is?" Beckett asked, thoughtfully, "How much am I worth? Also, are my eyes really that close together?" He inspected the picture, and Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

"Beckett. Shut up." She snapped, as William moved his head to face both of them, and made a contented gurgling sound.

"Do you think Junior recognizes me?" Beckett asked, finally looking at little William lying on the bales of hay. Elizabeth gritted her teeth.

"His name is William," she hissed, correcting him. Oh, where had their friendship gone? "Alright," she sighed, warily, "You can stay the night. But no funny business." She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering if she was making a huge mistake. But in truth, she _did_ feel a little guilty about 'ruining his second life', as he put it, so she supposed that—for perhaps a day or two—he could stay with her.

_As long as I don't get caught up in all of this_, she thought to herself warily; somehow already knowing that that was exactly what was going to happen. She pulled her shirt up a little at the side to show him the hilt of a sword that she had learned to carry about on her person at all times now; her expression telling him that if he dared try anything, there would be hell to pay.

"No funny business... got it," Beckett said, smiling. Elizabeth sighed and turned around, climbing on top of a bale of hay. The bales were roughly square-shaped, tied together with string, and arranged in huge piles around the massive barn; the highest stacks were against the walls, the levels getting lower as it got further into the barn—causing an effect like a set of giant steps, made of hay, going up to the walls.

"Go over to the other side of the barn, sit down and shut up," she snapped. Beckett frowned at her.

"Very friendly," he said derisively, but he turned and began exploring the barn anyhow—taking a look around the bales of hay, until he came across a ladder. He climbed it with several loud creaks, and stood on the upper floor, looking around. More hay—nothing else. There were parts where he could see through the rafters—he clambered over to a like spot and peered down. He could see Elizabeth cradling William, right by the wall, so high up on top of the bales of hay that he was quite close to her even in the rafters; and then she looked up. He waved at her jauntily, and she rolled her eyes and looked away again.

Beckett sighed, and collapsed into a bale of hay, looking at the roof, which had a few holes in it. This place was in need of mending. But he shook those thoughts off, and just listened to himself breathe for a bit, wondering how he had come this far.

----------

Audrey didn't know how long she'd been in the cell, when the door was suddenly hefted open by the bulky guard—he grinned a toothless grin, as several soldiers walked in. Audrey looked around at the soldiers, who wordlessly seized her.

"Let go of me!" She demanded, ready to argue... but proud Lady Audrey Beckett was silenced with a single look.

She was stuffed into a carriage, which had a couple of men inside. She looked at them all, fearfully. All of this for grabbing Captain Williams' arm? She hadn't thought that it would lead to so much. She and her son had never been close—but somehow, she had known that she couldn't allow him to simply be killed, or tried and hung; for the sake of the family name, if anything.

Though that was already in the mud, unbeknownst to her.

"Where are you taking me?" Audrey asked, timidly.

"Lord Leonard would like to see you," sniffed one of the men in the carriage, "We are on our way to his office now."

Audrey thought for a minute, placing this Lord Leonard—and then she remembered him as the man who had taken her son's place after his apparent death. She didn't make the connection at first, not being incredibly smart, but she did gain a niggling doubt just about then. He'd seemed a charming man, though. But in the upper-class world, many men seemed to be many things—many things that they weren't...

After a short journey, she was taken to the office that used to be her sons. At least they hadn't been bad-mannered enough to put her in shackles... though she knew that it wasn't so much manners, as the fact that she had no hope of getting away from them. She tried to look as proper and strict as she could in her rumpled dress and yesterday's makeup, though she knew that it wouldn't work.

As she was escorted to his desk, she stepped apprehensively, like a mouse about to face down a lion.

----------

Beckett couldn't sleep. Midnight had been and gone, and his thoughts still buzzed in his head, though he knew that a decent night's sleep was what he needed. He just couldn't believe it. He hadn't even had a chance to explain—already he was being accused of being a pirate, of all things.

Pirates. How he loathed them.

Though now, apparently, he was one. That was rather annoying. He stood up and brushed the hay off of his stolen clothes, quickly making his way down the creaky ladder and onto the bottom floor of the barn, finding his way around the maze of bales, and clambering up onto the top levels of hay, until at last, he found Elizabeth and her baby, curled up safely and sleeping soundly. He frowned, as something caught the light.

Lying next to Elizabeth's hand was a sword—slightly curved, with a handguard that gleamed an odd greeny blue. He edged forwards, dropping to his knees, and reached out for it, over Elizabeth's sleeping form; Elizabeth continued sleeping peacefully, and he quickly grabbed it.

Backing away from Elizabeth, he looked at the sword in his hand by the sparse amount of moonlight that spilled into the room from a small hole somewhere in the roof. Everything was bathed in it's fine, silvery light. He turned the sword over, examining it; much more apt then a broken gun. He ran a finger along an edge—not razor sharp, but it would still serve its purpose.

Beckett sighed.

He knew what he had to do.

* * *

**NB:** What's Beckett up to, mmhm? Was Elizabeth wrong to 'trust' him? What's going to happen to Audrey? What on earth is a 'spittoon'? These questions may or may not be answered in the next chapter! On a different note; YAAAAA! I am very pleased as I was given an A star for my English coursework! I am just so chuffed... :) Alright, end of my squeefulness. Okay, one last squee. 

FULL MAAAAAAAAARKS... :D (I'll stop sounding like an arrogant overachiever now, heh. I don't expect I'll be seeing another A star...it was my original writing coursework, after all. :P )


	6. Familiarity

SIX: Familiarity

"I don't understand all of this," the Lady Beckett was having a hard time grasping the concept of all that was happening to her. "My son can't be a pirate. That's just... impossible."

"It's not impossible. And that's beside the point—it doesn't matter whether he is or not. My word goes." Lord Leonard smirked.

"So you're hanging him even though he's innocent?" Lady Audrey asked, looking shocked.

"Innocent?! Oh, you have no idea what happens behind closed doors, do you? Anything for the sake of good business," Lord Leonard gave a slight chuckle, "What I'm doing is no worse then anything your son has done."

"My son was a successful man and an asset to the family," Audrey Beckett echoed the words she had repeated many times, without really understanding what they meant.

"You fool," Lord Leonard smirked, though there was a dash of disdain in there. If the term 'Wag' had been invented, that would have been fitting for Audrey. She didn't do thinking, or any of the work—she just married into the family to continue the bloodline, that sort of thing. She didn't need to know about the dirty deals and the manipulation that happened behind closed doors... all she knew was that her son had become respected, rich and powerful. She was naive enough to think that it was all through perfectly legal means.

But everyone played dirty once in a while.

"Why have you arrested me?" Audrey snapped, "People will be hearing of this!"

"Oh? Who, exactly?" Lord Leonard smirked, "Husband dead, parents dead, son wanted for crimes against the king of England... who can protect you now?" Audrey opened and closed her mouth.

She had no idea. But it was beginning to dawn on her that her gold-encrusted, magical, fairytale of a life was drawing to a close—everyone who could have protected her before was gone, and now she was left floundering on her own; a woman who had no grasp of politics, no head for business, not even any physical strength.

She was alone.

"Your trial has already been held," Lord Leonard sniffed, "And after a great deal of publicity... you will hang. Your dear son will be sure to come and 'rescue' you."

"My trial has already been held?" Audrey shook her head, "But, but... how? I wasn't even there!"

"Oh, various bits of string-pulling can get anything done... I don't expect you to understand, though. You've been living a sheltered life—a life hidden behind fool's gold and beautiful dresses. Now, men," he turned away from her, "Escort the _former_ _Lady_ Beckett back to he cell, if you would please."

"Lord Leonard... Lord Leonard!" Audrey struggled slightly as the soldiers on either side of her gripped her shoulders, "I don't... I don't understand... how...?" She was dragged away before she could continue.

----------

Elizabeth woke up slowly, first feeling the light begin to fight against her eyelids but resisting it in a half-dream state, then becoming more aware of the things around her, until finally she realized she was quite cold, and she sat up, yawning. Her hand reached out for her sword—not finding it there, she panicked, thoughts of Beckett flooding her mind, but then her hand grasped the familiar handle; it was laid out neatly, a little to the left of where she'd put it last night.

Hmm.

"How's my baby... William?" She went cold with dread as she searched for her baby. The tiny form of baby William was nowhere to be found. She even looked on the floor, as if afraid he would have fallen from the massive bales of hay by rolling in the night. She was certain that he'd been in her arms.

"I have Junior," came a voice from across the upland of hay that she had been lying on. She looked up at the man who had said that, who was sitting cross-legged a few feet away with William in his arms—not certain of who he was.

"Beckett?" She asked, "What's wrong with your hair? It looks like you went at it with a blunt sword."

"I did," Beckett said with a grimace. His dark blonde, neatish curls were gone, replaced instead with... well... 'uneven' was the word that sprang to mind. He didn't look very happy about it. Elizabeth almost laughed, but she shuffled across, through the straw.

"Give me my baby," she demanded, narrowing her eyes.

"How can you not trust me with Junior Will?" Beckett asked, rolling his eyes, "I _birthed_ the bloody thing. Not in the literal sense."

"Yes, but back then, I was under the impression that you were my friend," Elizabeth snapped, holding her arms out. Beckett leaned forwards and passed the small baby over, rolling his eyes.

"Right," was all he said. Elizabeth kissed William on the forehead, and then laid him down in the hay, turning to Beckett.

"Your hair is stupid. You stand out even more then you did before," she said scornfully. "You look like an idiot." She crawled forwards across the hay and tugged on a strand of hair that stuck out oddly, as all of the rest of the hair around it had been sheared off.

"What do you want me to do about it?" Beckett asked sulkily.

"Ugh. Let me cut it. It's ugliness is going to bother me," Elizabeth sighed, reaching for her sword. Beckett glared at her.

"As if I want you swinging a sword around my head!" He said, obviously agitated. He scooted backwards away from her, and Elizabeth rolled her eyes, when Beckett suddenly vanished from view. She stared at where he used to be, wondering where he was, when his head suddenly popped out of the hay, looking annoyed.

"What are you doing?" Elizabeth asked him.

"There's a hole here," Beckett said, climbing back on top of the bales of hay, "I was just making sure you knew that."

"Gee, thanks," Elizabeth smirked.

"I don't want you cutting my hair, alright?" Beckett asked her tetchily, "You'll probably make even more of a mess of it then I did."

"I don't think that's possible," Elizabeth said, raising an eyebrow.

"It's not funny," Beckett snarled as Elizabeth stifled a laugh, "I had to cut it. I can't go around fitting every description of me circling around at the moment. Do I look different?" He patted his hair, a touch self-consciously.

"That's one way of putting it," Elizabeth said, "Come on, let me cut it."

"Oh? And what past experience do _you_ have of styling hair?" Beckett demanded.

"I'll probably do better then you, being able to see what I'm doing and all," Elizabeth said, rolling her eyes, "And I'm not going to be styling your hair into the latest thing, Beckett, I'm just going to cut it so it looks vaguely ordinary." _Gosh darn,_ Elizabeth thought, _it's been one night, we're on the run from the law, and we're arguing about a haircut._ It was just typical.

"Ugh. Fine," Beckett finally said, though there was distrust on every inch of his face. "Are you going to mess this up?" He asked, as Elizabeth advanced on him with the sword.

"I don't know," she said innocently, "I've never cut hair before."

----------

"We've searched _every inch_ of Breuing Docks, sir. He's nowhere to be found... nobody's even _seen_ him," the soldier shrugged at the lieutenant in charge of him. Lieutenant Frankston sighed, but nodded anyway. It had been two nights and a day since Beckett's disappearance; and little did he know that right at that moment, Beckett was all the way in Amion, receiving a haircut.

"I'll send tell to Lord Leonard," he said. Lord Leonard was directly in charge of this operation—he was determined to catch the dangerous fugitive, the ex-Lord Cutler Beckett. And why shouldn't he be? He was a man who had pulled wool over the eyes of everyone; a man who had become one of the richest and most admired men in Jamaica, only for it to be discovered that he had been working for the pirates.

An odd thing was that no evidence of this was actually ever told to anyone. But, naturally, they believed that it was the truth. Why would Lord Leonard lie?

"Expand the search to all of the other towns nearby, in fact, not only the ones in close proximity... I want posters everywhere. Everyone must know that this... lunatic is on the loose. Yes... lunatic... he's quite mad." Lord Leonard was giving orders fast and strong—and he liked his new addition. Beckett, insane? Great.

The mockery was too much for him to resist. He had several high-up doctors bribed to put forth their opinion that Beckett was completely bonkers—oh, sweet, sweet revenge. The tabloids would go crazy about this particular tidbit of information; everyone would believe that he was a complete and utter lunatic. It would be everywhere.

Lord Leonard chuckled himself to sleep that night.

* * *

**NB:** Aww, it's just like old times! Well, a bit like old times... sort of. Leonard's little rumour leads to much mayhem--but it's going to come back and bite him in the rear, one of these days. I'll stop spoiling now! Hope you liked! 


	7. Rumour

SEVEN: Rumour

Elizabeth couldn't help but smile as she cut through locks of Beckett's hair—it was all so... domesticated. As if they weren't two suspected criminals being searched for by every naval officer in the country, and they hadn't spent the last two and a half years trying to kill each other, and as if, in fact, they were two ordinary people, sitting in a barn, cutting each other's hair.

Alright, you could cut the ordinary out of that one.

At the beginning, Beckett had been tense as she'd held strands of hair, and then awkwardly cut the sword through them, as if just waiting for her to suddenly plunge the sword into him up to the hilt. He sat, cross-legged with his knees drawn up, his arms wrapped tightly around them, and Elizabeth knelt behind him, the hay tickling her knees through her skirts.

"Almost done," Elizabeth said, her brow furrowed in concentration. Most of Beckett's hair was gone now—it stuck up, about two inches long and still corkscrewing; apart from his fringe, which was mostly untouched, and bounced down to nearly the bridge of his nose. She figured that the more cover he had for his face, the better.

It didn't help him look any better, though.

But that was all the more amusing.

"Done," Elizabeth said finally, grinning at the wreckage of short, wavy hair she had created before her, and the curls of dark blonde on the hay around her. Beckett put a hand to his head, feeling the shortness between his index finger and thumb.

"Oh, great," he muttered, "Now I have hardly any hair left... it's all short! _Who_ has short hair? Farmers, that's who," as he grumbled, Elizabeth rolled her eyes and stood up, walking towards William, who was mewling on the hay where she'd put him. He moved his head to look at her as she came towards him—she smiled and picked him up, cradling him.

"Quit your whining—what are you planning on doing now?" Elizabeth asked Beckett, rocking William gently.

"I think we should get out of Amion as soon as we can," Beckett said, "It's early morning, which means there shouldn't be too many people around. We should head out of the south road like you were going to get away from me, and then-,"

"Beckett. What's all of this 'we'? You're not dragging _me_ into this," Elizabeth said, frowning at him.

"Oh, come on. You owe me that much," Beckett said, with an airy shrug, "It's your fault that all of this happened, so you're going to be dragged into it whether you like it or not. Now let's get going."

"What's all the rush?" Elizabeth asked, warily.

"Elizabeth, these people are... hell-bent on catching me. I don't know why, but they are taking this with the utmost of seriousness. We have to move. I think I threw them off the scent earlier in Coston, but pretty soon, the place is going to be surrounded by them." Beckett closed his eyes, "This is just not something that should happen to people like me," he muttered wistfully.

"Fine, fine," Elizabeth sighed, "Just give me ten minutes or so, to get William fed and settled and get myself ready, then we can set off." Beckett looked like he was about to protest, but then he just nodded.

"Yes, right. Fine," he said.

----------

They set off soon afterwards, deciding to go down little footpaths as opposed to large roadways to help prevent being spotted, and thankfully it wasn't too far to Gingerham, which was the next town up. The sun was pale and washed-out this early in the morning, and the sun was only just beginning to struggle up into the sky.

"We have to be careful. Like I should ditch these clothes already for some new ones. Does my haircut make me look different enough? And I think I should come up with a false name, too," Beckett was thinking aloud, and not really waiting for any response.

"Alright," Elizabeth sighed, holding William close to her chest. She was being pulled into this little escapade with Beckett, and she wasn't sure she liked it. She'd had enough rough-and-tumble for one lifetime. She was ready to just settle down now; but fate wouldn't leave her alone.

'Fate' here having the meaning of 'Beckett'. But still... she did find herself feeling that familiar euphoria of an adventure; life was, once more, exciting, interesting and full of danger. And though she knew she shouldn't be—she was glad. Glad that life wasn't settling back to boring, boring obscurity.

But she was still wary.

Once they arrived at Gingerham, Beckett insisted that they walked _around_ the city, and once they reached the other side, enter from that direction. Elizabeth didn't know whether to be amused, or slightly scared by Beckett's paranoia—but agreed to it anyway. He probably knew what was best. Soon they had arrived at the other side of Ginerham, and had just eaten a quick lunch from a stall.

"I feel... unreasonably alarmed," Beckett said with a small frown. He looked around at the people milling about, wondering what was wrong. Nobody took any notice of him and Elizabeth. Then he saw it. "I knew something was wrong," he groaned, dragging Elizabeth away from the main street by an arm.

"What? What is it?" Elizabeth asked.

"Posters. Everywhere, look," Beckett said, waving an arm. Elizabeth looked down the main street—and it dawned on her that by the roadside, there were hundreds of posters, in long lines down walls; in fact, there was a man pasting them onto the wall as they walked. She'd never noticed them before, but now that she had, it was blindingly obvious. She was horrified—how had they not recognized Beckett?

It seems that you never see what you don't expect.

"What're we going to do? The news is getting everywhere!" Elizabeth hissed, as they ducked down a back alley and out towards the edge of town once more.

"You go back there and buy a newspaper. We have to keep posted," Beckett nodded, "I'll stay on the border of the town. Here," he helped her over a fence, and gestured around the field they were standing in. It was midday now—orders to put up posters _everywhere _had spread incredibly fast since that morning.

"Alright," Elizabeth said, slightly unenthusiastically. She looked at William, and with a sigh, held him out towards Beckett; he was confused, but took the baby anyway. Elizabeth reluctantly let go of her little boy. "The town centre's no place for a baby," she muttered.

"So... see you in a few minutes?" Beckett asked, "I'll look after your bag too, if you-,"

"No," Elizabeth shook her head, "I'll keep the bag, thanks. I'll be back soon, okay?" Beckett nodded, shifting little William in his arms. Elizabeth looked at them both with almost jealous eyes—after being basically the only person with any contact with William over the past couple of months or so, she had grown a tad protective. But she tore her gaze away and set off at a brisk walk. She knew that, despite his frosty demeanour towards babies and all creatures like them, Beckett (not so) secretly doted on William and wouldn't do anything stupid like drop him or try to eat him.

Once she arrived at the main street, she turned off, directing her gaze away from the man slapping posters on the plaster walls, and strode confidently into the more high-market parts of the main street. She walked into a shop that sold newspaper, tobacco, and sweet chocolate wrapped in ribbon, and quickly looked through the available newspapers, seeing a familiar name in the headlines, as expected.

She blinked.

She looked again.

_Oh dear,_ she thought, _Beckett is not going to like this..._

----------

"So now I'm a lunatic," Beckett said, slapping the newspaper against the side of the fence, "Great. According to many doctors I have never met, I am 'dangerous and mentally unstable'. Even better!" He sighed and looked at the grass.

"It gets even better then that..." Elizabeth said, slowly. She wasn't sure how to break it to him. Beckett looked at her questioningly for a moment, and then looked back to the newspapers, his eyes scanning over the words quickly. Elizabeth knew exactly when he had come to the part she had seen when he suddenly froze, standing rigid for a moment, before seeming to realize how his posture had changed.

"My mother's going to hang in two days," he said, slowly. Elizabeth wasn't sure what to say. "Two days. That's enough time to get to Port Royale. That's where she's hanging." Elizabeth's mouth dropped open.

"Beckett, this is so obviously a trap!" She said, setting herself down in the slightly damp grass, "You're not serious, are you?"

"Oh, and what do you suggest? Just sit back and relax as my mother is hung? Yes, never mind! It's only my mother! Gosh, what must have come over me?" Beckett gave an exaggerated shrug.

"It's not like you to get all rescue-y over someone that isn't yourself," Elizabeth said, putting her hands on her hips.

"Sod off," Beckett said with a scowl.

"But you don't even like her," Elizabeth persisted with her argument.

"Of course I don't like her. But... but she's my mother!" Beckett shook his head at her, somewhat helplessly, as if there was nothing else he could possibly do.

"Well, you didn't seem to have problem with it when you were hanging people left, right and centre," Elizabeth snapped, a frown spreading over her face too, "You were going to hang _me_!"

"Yes... but she's my _mother_!" Beckett empathized, as if trying to make her understand a very simple concept, "I don't have a choice, Elizabeth, I have to go to Port Royale!"

"That's what they want you to do! Who says they'll really hang her if you don't show up?" Elizabeth asked.

"Elizabeth. I used to work with these people. They don't care about stringing up a few people—even women. You of all people should know that," he seemed to think for a moment, and then he got to his feet quickly, "If we're going to get to Port Royale on time, we're going to have to hurry."

"Beckett..." Elizabeth sighed and got to her feet, "Do I really need to be caught up in all of this? I mean, it's been harmless... sort of... so far. But I have a baby to think about," she held up William to make her point, "And it's not like we're exactly good friends, or anything." She sighed.

"No... I suppose not," Beckett said, though he sounded a million miles away. He wasn't really listening to her. "Anyway, Port Royale's further south, so we have to head out that way..."

Elizabeth opened and closed her mouth, and then with a sigh, decided that she had to go with him. She couldn't let a determined Cutler Beckett wander out into the world on his own—he was wilful, but oh-so-ignorant of the ways of the lower-class world. He was about to run into a public hanging, swarming with redcoats, to grab a woman that he had confessed to hating many, many times.

Idiot.

Elizabeth stood up, checked that they had enough food to last, and then followed after Beckett, whose lips were moving slightly as he thought deeply, trying to come up with a sane way to save the Lady Audrey Beckett.

* * *

**NB:** You can take away the tea... burn the money... throw the wigs away... but you _never_ mess with the mothers! Elizabeth's getting drawn into the adventure now, isn't she? Thanks a lot for the reviews, they are much loved! Each one brightens my day! If you have any concrit, I welcome it--any little thing you notice; if you think someone's acting not right or I persistantly make the same grammar mistake or my prose has gone to pot... drop a line! 


	8. Resonsibility

EIGHT: Responsibility

Lord Leonard was in a good mood. Business was going great, and it was two days until the hanging of Audrey Beckett! He would make sure he was there in person for the spectacle that would very likely ensue. He was pretty sure that—despite knowing that it was a trap—Beckett would probably drag himself over to Port Royale to try and come up with some way to 'save' her. After all, it was simple equation.

Oh, he knew that Cutler Beckett was a man who put himself before anyone else, at all times; but mothers are the one anomaly of this little sum. He supposed that there were times when this wasn't the case, perhaps if you had never met your mother, etc, but still, he knew that in most cases, mothers were an untouchable subject—love them, loathe them, they were your _mother_.

Bottom line; if you want to bribe someone, forget their namby-pamby betrothed or their sweet-as-sweet-can-be sister; just go for the mother.

It never failed.

----------

Audrey Beckett looked up as the door rattled open, the stocky, wooden door dragging across the floor with a groan—her jailer looked in, and held out a plateful of food—no doubt cold and undercooked. Audrey walked forwards and took the plate out of his hands, even managing to offer him a weak smile. The jailer slammed the door closed again.

She'd always, for some reason, thought that there would be a small hole in the door, where the food would be slid to her. That was always the case in the romance novels that she used to read. Still, at least the jailer was kind enough to hand the food over to her instead of dumping it on the floor or something.

Hung. She'd never thought that she would be hung. It's just not something a person like her would ever consider—a lady in a rich family, married to a powerful man, with a son that was even more powerful... yes, it didn't seem very likely that she would spend the last few days of her life crouched in a damp cell with moss on the walls, wondering if it had been days or hours since her last feeding.

It didn't seem very likely at all. She'd always thought she would die lying in a bed, propped up on pillows, the typical heroic upper-class-woman death; her family gathered at her side.

She had mixed feelings about what was happening to her—obviously, she was frightened; her stomach clenched and churned at the thought of the feel of rough rope around her neck, and a death by strangulation; would it hurt? How long would she hang for? Would people be staring at her, laughing at her?

Where would her son be? She wasn't sure what to make of the feelings towards her son. She was glad he wasn't dead, though she knew that she was being used as a ruse to bring him over here. She was scared that he would come and be captured and killed because of her, but, oddly enough, she was more scared that he wouldn't. That he wouldn't even bother coming to save his own mother.

He was known to be a bit cold, but that would have been a bit ludicrous. She and him had never gotten on—and heck, those maternal bonds she was meant to feel with her son were so weak that it was only his distant politeness that kept it together, but still...

She sighed and shook her head, knowing that she had no idea what was going to happen to her. Her fate lay entirely in the hands of others.

But, she realized now, it always had.

----------

"Oh, Jesus, I feel like everyone's staring at me," Beckett muttered, as they passed through a sleepy little village on their journey to Port Royale. Elizabeth rolled her eyes as Beckett scowled aggressively at a young girl with a skipping rope. She stared at him for a moment, and then turned and ran for it. Elizabeth wasn't surprised.

"Leave the children alone, Beckett," She said, rolling her eyes, though she couldn't help but grin. Beckett had become more paranoid then ever since they'd left Gingerham yesterday—they'd stayed the night in a stable, which hadn't been too bad, though Beckett had wrinkled his nose at the smell and insisted on checking over every single little detail of the place, including possible escape routes and places where people may be hidden.

"It's not funny," Beckett said in a low voice, ducking his head as a couple of old ladies walked past. Elizabeth couldn't help but find his obsessive mistrust amusing, however. "What're you looking at?" He enquired one of old ladies rudely.

"Beckett!" Elizabeth hissed at him, as the women shot him scandalized looks from somewhere behind them, "You're just drawing attention to yourself!"

"Not as much as you shouting out 'Beckett' for all the world to hear!" Beckett argued back, rolling his eyes. Then he leaned towards her. "There are posters everywhere, Elizabeth!" He hissed, "Even this god-forsaken little hovel-town has them. Not only that, but there are posters... _advertising_ my mother's hanging!"

"It's so blatantly a trap, it's not even funny," Elizabeth sighed, cradling William in her arms. He looked around at the sights and sounds contentedly. Luckily, he had mellowed into a very complacent baby after his, uh, _loud_ early babyhood.

"There will be a way somewhere—they can't think of everything," Beckett mused, as they passed by a row of houses, "Thing is, at this rate, we'll get there barely in time for the hanging. That's what they want. We have to go faster," as he said this, he looked up, and his eyes rested on a horse and cart that was by the inn. The driver was patting his horses, and then he turned towards the driving seat.

"Beckett, are you sure that it's safe?" Elizabeth asked, as Beckett began walking directly to the back cart. It was stuffed full of barrels, crates of apples and even a bale of hay, but there was a small step on the back, where they could probably both sit.

"Of course," Beckett said, craning his neck to see if the driver had noticed them, "We just sit back, ride for as long as it's going towards Port Royale, and then we jump ship and we've made a whole lot of progress." Elizabeth sighed, but she walked up to the step anyway, and sat herself down, leaning back against a stack of crates. Beckett brushed down his half of the seat thoroughly, and then sat down too.

They started to move—and they both rode on, their legs swinging in the midday air.

Even Elizabeth had to admit that it was quite pleasant—as they rode along, the horse's hooves clopping on the dusty road, they had soon left the little hamlet behind and were in the country, fields of corn waving around next to them; and it was nice. She looked around, bobbing William up and down and enjoying the sights, but she could see Beckett chewing on a lip next to her as he thought.

She sighed and kissed William on the forehead, looking down at her baby boy, realizing now—a bond between a mother and her child went beyond any petty dislike or disdain; a bond between a mother and her child were too strong to be severed by little things, or even most big things.

She sighed, also realizing that she should have known this all along.

----------

They had been travelling for about an hour, and it was past midday now. They had about one full day before the hanging; though Elizabeth knew that they were making good progress—at least, better then if they were on foot. The cart continued to move, bouncing against the dusty ground every now and again; the corn growing in the fields either side of them grew tall, so that they could see nothing but the road behind them.

Elizabeth turned to look at Beckett, and he looked back at her.

"Nice eye," she said, suddenly realizing that Beckett had the mother of all black eyes. She didn't know how she hadn't spotted it before—she just hadn't really looked properly at him.

"Thank you," he replied. There was a pause.

Then, with no warning at all, Beckett leaned towards her; Elizabeth felt her stomach go cold and drop away, down into some dark pit. She had no idea what to think or do, apart from perhaps panic a little, as the gap between their faces became less and less. She felt powerless to do anything. Then, with their faces only a couple of inches apart, his cool, grey-green eyes in front of her with more detail then she'd ever seen them, every single eyelash visible, every little speck of darker green in his eyes, and Beckett suddenly flicked a finger across her cheek and then leaned away again.

"You had something on your face," he said.

"I... oh," Elizabeth felt herself blushing, but laughed, part relieved and part shell-shocked. "Beckett," she said, "Never scare me like that again."

"What?" He asked, wrinkling his brow. Elizabeth simply shook her head. Beckett looked down at the road again, seeming completely unaware of the moment of complete panic that Elizabeth had just been through. "Thank you for coming with me," he said, which surprised Elizabeth. A warm smile started to stretch across her face, but then he ruined it by carrying on, "One man on his own would fit the description perfectly, but with someone to vouch for me, I probably wouldn't be suspected at all."

"It's fine," Elizabeth said, a touch weakly. Every now and again, Beckett would show a sign of, well, 'niceness'... but he always had to ruin it by spilling his true intentions. She sighed and looked out at the fields around them.

It was going to be a long journey.

----------

When they arrived in Port Royale, a day later, Beckett was on edge. Elizabeth could tell easily—everything about him was screaming 'suspicious'. She wished that he would perhaps settle down a little, but he was extremely jumpy, and narrowed his eyes at anyone who so much as blinked in his direction. Elizabeth had hoped that being in his old stomping grounds would calm him down a little; but it had the opposite effect.

"Beckett, will you stop being so guarded?" She sighed to him, "It'll make you even more suspicious. Just stay calm—I'm sure everyone wont recognize you immediately."

"It's not that," Beckett muttered agitatedly, "It's my mother. Her hanging's in three hours."

Elizabeth didn't know what to say to that.

* * *

**NB:** The hanging date draws nearer! Oh, and was that a beckabeth moment I spotted? -Dodges oncoming frying pan- Alright, alright, not everyone is in favour of beckabeth... but with a couple that go so well together, there are bound to be moments! In fact, if you look close enough between the lines, there's a beckabeth moment almost every chapter... if you're determined enough. xD But I don't think I'll make this story into an 'official' BeckettxElizabeth pairing; she just loves Will too much. 


	9. Deliberation

NINE: Deliberation

Beckett and Elizabeth both stood in the town square, in the shadows of an alleyway. In the middle of the centre, there were the gallows set up—from which two ropes hung. Beckett coughed, uncomfortably. The gallows seemed to be taunting him, like they were saying; _your mummy first, then you._ The gallows were set up on a large wooden podium, with some stocks there for good measure. Beckett noticed another podium with a few seats, where servants were setting out chairs and drinks.

People—lords and ladies—would be coming to view this. Sit by as idle bystanders as their former friend the Lady Audrey Beckett was hung for doing nothing more then pulling a captain to the floor, and saving her son's life. Beckett's stomach clenched; her last act of motherliness more then anything meant that he had to make sure she didn't die at (practically) his hands.

"Three hours to go. Less, now. But where will they be keeping her?" Beckett mused, keeping his composure as much as he could manage. "We'll have to check out all of the local gaols. I doubt that she'd be kept in the nearest one, and I'm sure they would have heavily guarded another to throw me off the scent," he smiled grimly.

"So we're going for the second most-guarded one that isn't closest to us?" Elizabeth asked, "How can you be sure?"

"It's the typical red herring used by the Company," Beckett said softly, "I know how they work. I'm going to have to make myself look different, though. Very different." He paused, seeming deep in thought.

"What're you thinking?" Elizabeth asked him, softly.

"I've thought out lots of different plans, but the only one that has a hope in hell of working is disguising myself as a soldier and getting into the prison, and then... break her out, I suppose," he looked at the ground, a small frown on his face, "I usually have more time to think about these things. Snap decisions aren't really my strong suite..."

"Snap decision? You've had two days to think about it," Elizabeth said, raising an eyebrow, and hoisting William higher on her hip. He was beginning to mewl—it was time for a feeding. "And can we find somewhere to stop off?"

"It's a snap decision considering that I've had to simultaneously plan, escape, keep my head down, find places to stay, find means of travelling, worry about my mother dying, plot, walk and help look after a baby," Beckett said, massaging his temples with a thumb and forefinger, "And as for your question, pick the least-disgusting looking inn and you have yourself a deal."

"Alright... and also, aren't 'planning' and 'plotting' the same thing?" Elizabeth asked, beginning to walk.

"Not really... 'plotting' is generally more evil," Beckett said airily, following behind her, "Now come up with ideas to make me look different." Elizabeth tutted, but she had to hold back a small smile as she walked towards a shady bar named the _Horse and Hound_.

Beckett rested an arm on the table and had a quick glance over his shoulder as he and Elizabeth sat down on a table near a wall. Not being too near the coastline at the moment, and it being quite early in the day, there weren't too many drunken men inhabiting the bar—quite a few middle-class people enjoying a quiet drink, which was all good.

His mind—all this time—had been ticking; he'd been plotting as well as planning, of course. Mostly thoughts about ways to not only save his mother, but himself. All right, so he'd been discovered, and he was Cutler Beckett after all, blah, blah. Perhaps he could work this to his advantage, without having to change his name again, join the navy again, be discovered again, having a close family member threatened by a violent death again... etc.

Handing over ex-Pirate King Elizabeth Swann—well, Turner now—would be easy, and it would probably convince most well enough that he was _not_ a pirate sympathiser. The very idea! He detested all pirates equally, without a single exception!

Well, perhaps one exception.

Not to say that he didn't detest her, of course. He just detested her slightly less then every other pirate in the world. She had, he supposed, in a way, sort of, kind of practically almost virtually basically slightly nearly maybe saved his life. Multiple times. She had also ended his life many times, but not all friendships could be the happy-clappy, forever-friends, namby-pamby, let's-get-matching-bracelets, skipping-through-fields-of-daisies mush that everyone seemed to love.

Anyway, Beckett didn't wish for that sort of thing at all. Elizabeth did... in a way... amuse him. And she was one of the few people that he felt his wit wasn't wasted on, though he did get a distinct feeling sometimes that she was laughing _at_ him, and not _with_ him.

What could give him such an idea?

Still, on to the point—ratting on ex-Pirate King Elizabeth Turner would be a pusillanimous, backstabbing and plain nasty thing to do; but then again, he could gain a lot, and at the very moment... well, he stood to lose a lot. His entire future as a happy and well-rounded individual was hanging in the balance. And the balance was _not_ tipped in his favour...

"Boot polish," Elizabeth said at last. Beckett snapped out of his thoughts, and blinked at her.

"Pardon?" He asked.

"Boot polish, for your hair. Make it black," Elizabeth explained, cradling a now-sleeping William. Beckett had been all lost in a world of his own, so she'd taken the time to feed and have some cuddling time with little William. She wasn't sure how this was going to end.

"Boot polish? Eugh," Beckett wrinkled his nose in distaste, "It'll ruin my hair."

"Your hair is already ruined," Elizabeth pointed out, smirking as she looked at the rather rushed haircut that he'd had to have, with a blunt sword and all. She still had the sword, strapped to her belt, the flat edge along her leg, hidden underneath her skirts. She had to be prepared, after all.

"True," he sighed, looking around the inn. A few ordinary-looking folk, some people who were dressed neatly, servants perhaps, and a couple of redcoats. Beckett was keeping a wary eye on them, but they weren't about to recognize him.

Beckett had thought that going out and about without actually wearing a mask would be like striding around town with a big arrow over his head that said, 'Hello! I am Cutler Beckett, wanted fugitive. Please capture me!' But it seemed that these people didn't know him very well, the picture printed on the poster was slightly inaccurate, and to top it off, his haircut changed the way he looked entirely.

All in all, people are much harder to recognize then you'd think if you hadn't seen them in person before, photographs weren't invented, and you would never in a thousand years expect to see them anyway. Really.

"I need to get a uniform," Beckett mused, "I have to somehow find some soldier and kill him or something," Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Men!

"You don't need to kill him, just knock him out," she said.

"But then he could tell people," Beckett said, as if it were obvious, "Anyway. Why don't you start chatting one up or something? Use your feminine charms, so to speak," even Beckett couldn't conceal a snicker at Elizabeth's expression. Then she realized he was joking.

"Oh, that's classy," Elizabeth muttered, rolling her eyes, "These are soldiers—they're not going to go dive on just anyone who gives them the come-on."

"Not in my experience," Beckett said peaceably. Elizabeth gawked at him, her mouth open. Beckett frowned at her, and then seemed to realize that what he'd just said could be taken rather... incorrectly. "No, that wasn't what I..." he leaned back as Elizabeth started laughing, "I phrased that wrongly," he muttered.

"Too late. That is forever going to be engraved in my mind now," Elizabeth shook her head. She found nothing more hilarious then Beckett making a complete arse of himself.

He did it quite frequently, in her opinion.

"Anyway, I've got to find out more, and get a hold of..." he trailed off as the barmaid arrived at their table, smiling.

"Can I get anything for you?" She asked in a cheerful voice.

"Uh, no," Beckett said, though Elizabeth was quite hungry, "But I was wondering about something—do you mind if I ask you a question?" He blinked at her. Her cheerful expression slid off of her face like ice off of a tin roof.

"Piss off," she snapped, and then walked away.

"...what?" Beckett's mouth dropped open as she walked away, "Well that was... that was just _rude_! This is the reason I disapprove of the middle class," Beckett muttered, sitting back in his seat. Elizabeth sighed.

"Beckett. You really have no idea about... hmm, pub language, do you?" She asked.

"Of course not. As if I'd want to frequent holes like this place," he finished with a cold sneer at his somewhat dingy surroundings, and a pointed look at the barmaid.

"Right, how do I put this..." Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, "In places like this, your polite little enquiry is practically the same as asking for a leg over. Yes?" Beckett looked disgusted for a minute, and then he took up an expression that was very much different.

"If she should be so lucky," he smirked, and Elizabeth felt herself begin to blush.

"This conversation has gone far enough, methinks," Elizabeth said quickly, avoiding eye contact with Beckett. Her imagination was going slightly crazy at the moment, and she did not take to it kindly.

"Oh, as if you can pretend to be Miss Purity," Beckett sneered, "You have a baby!"

"A baby is a different matter all together!" Elizabeth exclaimed, cuddling William close to her heart and throwing him a dirty look.

"Oh, so it's fine if the woman gets pregnant, but otherwise it's disgusting?" Beckett asked.

"Stop messing words around, I didn't say that!" Elizabeth said, scowling at him. Damn him and his sharpness. For some reason, it was as if Beckett had some sort of compulsive need to argue with every statement she ever made. It got on her nerves. He knew it got on her nerves, but he did it anyway—he seemed to enjoy it.

"Yes, well, _anyway_," Beckett said, the sneer evaporating from his face, "Let's go, Elizabeth. Two and a half hours left. We're going to waste even more time. Get yourself sorted out—we have to move now."

* * *

**NB:** Apologies for the fact that there wasn't a huge amount of plot development in this chapter! I promise more excitement next chapter. Hey, you have the grand plan now, anyway. Yup--it's weak. But Beckett hasn't had time to think of any other option. Also a touch of innuendo in this chapter, heh... I don't really know where it came from. Embarrassed Elizabeth is fun to write.

What will become of Audrey? Only time will tell... apart from me, of course, who has already written this up to chapter thirty. :)


	10. Tension

TEN: Tension

Lord Leonard sat in his carriage, the curtains drawn, on his way to the centre square of Port Royale. He was going to be watching the hanging in person—and then waiting for a certain Cutler Beckett. He smiled to himself, imagining his face as he saw the posters and the papers announcing proudly that he was crazy; he'd chuckled to himself for an entire minute over that mental image.

Gosh darn, he hated that Beckett.

Pursing his lips, Lord Leonard wondered if he would even be able to pull enough strings to have Beckett hung directly after his capture. Then he decided, no—he would much rather have Beckett brought to his office for a nice little gloat. Drive the nail in, so to speak.

Well, it was his own fault. If he hadn't swanned around with his ingratiating smile and his smug little smirk, if he hadn't made so many people into his enemy simply by belittling them, then perhaps the world would have a little more sympathy for the now-outcasted Cutler Beckett. As it was, nobody felt incredibly bad about jumping on Beckett with no evidence whatsoever, and nobody asked any questions in any case.

Lord Leonard smiled to himself.

----------

"Boot polish... ugh," Beckett wrinkled his nose as Elizabeth presented him with the polish. It was in a large tin, filled to the top with a slimy substance, glistening black like molten liquorice. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

"Allow me," she said, scooping a gloopy black dollop onto her fingertips, with a big, scary smile.

----------

Audrey was still staring at the wall. Prison was infuriating, frightening, terrible and nauseating, but at the same time, it was excruciatingly boring. It was dank, dingy, with a small lantern for light and a patch of moss on the opposite wall to her bench. That was about it.

Her emotions had never felt so messy before—so many different feelings, none of them good, were coursing through her. Her thoughts all revolved around the hangman's noose, Lord Leonard, and her son. She knew that she possessed no knowledge over the political world, but she'd always thought of it as a noble and prestigious job. It seemed she was wrong, however.

Backstabbing, blackmailing, and plain old lying; she felt up to her neck in it. And apparently, her son had been just as bad—worse, even. She wasn't sure whether to believe anything Lord Leonard said, though, and she didn't particularly want to believe it. As little as they got on, she'd always admired her son and his intelligence and the way he helped the community by helping dispose of those terrible pirates; it was a decent thing to do. Apparently.

She felt that her thoughts had completed yet another loop and were about to go soaring back to the start, when the door rattled. Startled, she looked up as the heavy door slowly scraped against the floor. A man popped his head around the door.

"Bloody hell, that thing's heavy," the man said, raising an eyebrow, "Come on, then, mother!"

----------

Elizabeth stood in the crowd around the big platform, feeling the gun, cold against her side. When Beckett had found himself a redcoat and smacked his head in with the butt of his own gun, he'd picked another pistol out of the poor man's pocket and handed it to her.

"If things don't go according to plan, which I suspect strongly, then... well, how much of a marksman are you?" Beckett had asked, his eyes not meeting hers.

"Not much of one. Seeing as I'm a woman." Elizabeth had tried to keep the tone light, but a thick shroud of seriousness had fallen over Beckett, and he had pushed all joking aside. She thought for a minute, "I'm not that great at shooting," Elizabeth had said.

"Well," Beckett coughed uncomfortably at this point, "Would you say you had a chance in hell of hitting a rope with someone dangling off of it?"

"What? Snap the rope that your mother's being hung by, and let her drop down?" Elizabeth stared at him, "Are you being serious? Do you have any idea how impossible that is?"

"It's very unlikely... but you could at least try," Beckett had shrugged.

"But I'll fail. Do you know how much of a responsibility you're putting on my shoulders?" Elizabeth had been unable to do anything but shake her head, "I can't... I couldn't do that!"

"Look, if you fail, it wont be your fault, alright? You just... might as well try," Beckett had said seriously.

"I... fine, fine," Elizabeth remembered feeling the weight settle heavy on her back, the responsibility of his mother's life. "And... what if you're both being hung at the same time? Which rope do I shoot?"

"You... shoot whichever one you think is best," Beckett had said evenly.

"But I don't know which one would be best!" Elizabeth had cried urgently. Beckett didn't say anything, and she felt like grabbing his head and making him look at her. "Hello?"

"My mother," Beckett said, though he continued quickly, "Because her dress would make her heavier, and her neck is probably weaker, so she'd die first. But load the gun up quickly and you'd better get me out of there too, if you can do it," Beckett took a deep breath at the end of his explanation.

"I wish you'd try being a good person more often," Elizabeth had said with a smile.

"Oh, shut it. Your obsession with me being a 'good person' is stupid—you know that, don't you?" Beckett snapped agitatedly. "We have an hour and a three quarters before the hanging. Help me drag the redcoat over somewhere more private," he jerked his head towards an alleyway.

And that had been that. But now, Elizabeth was beginning to worry. She knew that she wasn't going to be able to hit the rope, if Beckett or his mother were to hang. The view of their jerking bodies alone would be enough to put her off, and a rope was a very hard target. She sighed, remembering when Jack had come to help her shoot the barrels of gunpowder to defeat the kraken—she was certain that he wouldn't be pulling a feat like that again. He could be anywhere by now.

So she stood in the crowd, who were beginning to gather eagerly. _That's odd,_ Elizabeth had thought, _there's just over an entire hour before the hanging starts..._ then she had realized something terrible.

Beckett didn't have as much time as he thought, after all.

----------

"Cutler?" Audrey asked, astonished. She was quickly shushed.

The man in front of her looked nothing like her son. He had a black eye, a jaggedly cut hairstyle—which was also an oddly unnatural shade of midnight black—and was dressed in slightly ill fitting uniform. He also had a couple of day's worth of stubble. Neat and orderly was out of the window.

"This is where they've been keeping you?" Beckett asked quietly, bending down and picking up a plate of cold, untouched potatoes. "What a dump."

"What're you doing in there, soldier?" Came a barking voice from behind him. Beckett, cursing internally, turned around to face the man, who was now standing by the door. When their eyes met, Beckett felt that his disguise was completely invisible—but the man didn't seem to notice anything out of place.

"Bringing the Lady Beckett her final supper... so to speak," he said, even adding a leer in there for good measure, holding up the plate of cold potatoes.

"Roighty then, but you left it a bit late. And you moight want to be careful when concerning a loidy—who knows what people will think?" The man finished with a smirk. Beckett was too busy trying to decipher his accent for a moment, before what he'd said dawned on him. He found the idea so disgusting that he was certain he felt about half of his brain cells committing suicide, but he smirked back.

"Right you are," he replied, adding a slight rough accent to his voice.

"Anyway, oi haven't seen you araand 'ere, are you that new geeza'?" The soldier asked, flicking a toothpick from his mouth to the floor. Beckett stared at him for another moment, before finally being able to work out what he'd said.

"Yup, I'm new," he agreed.

"Roight. Anyway, toime to take her ladyship out naow," the man grinned and motioned to Audrey to stand. Audrey was looking at her son, who gave the slightest of shrugs behind the soldiers' back. Even if he'd been able to work out what the man had just said, there was still nothing he could do about it.

"But I thought the hanging wasn't for another hour?" Beckett asked, confused.

"Aw, where've you bin?" The soldier said, pulling the Lady Audrey up and shackling her wrists, "Before she gets 'anged, she spends an 'aar in the stocks, see?"

"I see," Beckett said, not seeing at all. Then he seemed to make the connection between 'aar' and 'hour'. "Right then, let's go," he said, keeping an eye on the pocket in which the man had put the keys to the shackles. He'd have to remember that. They all turned and walked out of the cell and down the hallway.

"Lazy git," the soldier rolled his eyes, as he saw the jailer lying passed out on the floor, a bottle of rum by his side.

"He is," Beckett agreed as he put a hand on his mother's shoulder, glad that he had decided to cover his tracks when he had knocked the jailer out with the butt of the musket he had strapped to his back. Audrey looked at him through frightened eyes.

And she was lead out to the stocks.

* * *

**NB:** Beckett's hair-brained Plan B. Not a hope in hell. Next chapter has more action--and more amusement, I promise. It's meant to be amusing, anyway. :) On another note, I had injections yestarday... and my shoulders still hurt! Wah! Because the MMR injections were banned in Japan, I had to have one somethingsomething... I don't know, but I ended up with three extra injections! Unfair, eh? Still, that's my immunisation over with until I hit... twenty, or something...

I've drifted with random rubbish about my life again. Au revoir!


	11. Liberation

ELEVEN: Liberation

Elizabeth stood rigid as the people around her hushed into silence, as two soldiers led out the Lady Audrey Beckett. Then, being the common people that they were, most of then began baying and shouting, calls of 'Pirate, pirate!' echoing around the town square. The lady looked close to tears, and Elizabeth felt a shot of sympathy towards her, knowing the true story.

Then she realized that one of the men that were bringing her out was Beckett. Relief flooded into her—he hadn't been caught! He had Lady Audrey with him! It was going to be all right... she hoped. She was a little concerned, though. This wasn't a part of the plan.

It was now that everything began happening much faster.

As the soldier leaned down to pick up the stocks so that he could shove Audrey's head and hands through, Beckett suddenly pulled a bayonet off of the soldier's back and plunged it into him from behind. The soldier fell to the ground, bleeding, probably dead. Beckett said something to his mother—and the crowd went wild.

There was a moment of shock as Audrey suddenly got down on the ground, her shackled hands rolling the dead soldier's body over as she searched through a pocket—Beckett, meanwhile, had turned and had a great big 'uh-oh' look on his face, which was no wonder really, seeing as about six men were coming up onto the stage, looking like they meant business.

----------

"Is that... is that Beckett?" Lord Leonard had leapt to his feet as she soldier had stabbed the other in the back—quite literally—and was now staring in disbelief at the stage. What on earth? That black-haired, odd-looking man in a uniform was the ex-Lord Cutler Beckett?!

Nobody replied, because the other lords and ladies were too busy flapping fans in their faces, conversing in hushed tones, or perhaps swooning in a couple of cases. Lord Leonard glared at his two aides.

"Get the soldiers up there! I even pulled in a few dragoons for this one! Get them both captured!" Lord Leonard ordered loudly. "I don't want him dead. Well... not unless absolutely necessary."

----------

Beckett yanked the bayonet out of the man's back and called to his mother, "Get the key to your shackles—it's in the soldier's jacket pocket," Beckett said to her. He was regretting his actions now; so brash! He hadn't even had the chance to think through it three times like usual! Augh! His mother looked a little pale, but she nodded anyway, and quickly scooted down to the body. He glanced at the audience, and was surprised at how many there were. Faces filled up the entire square.

He supposed that with the amount of exposure that the hanging had gotten in order to bring him here, people had shown up to see what exactly was so great about it. Even an hour before the hanging, people were lining up to gawp at his mother in the stocks. Beckett looked over a sea of shocked faces.

Then they began their shouting and bellowing, beginning to stamp their feet and hoot at the spectacle in front of them. This was about to get interesting! Beckett realized this when several officers in red ran onto the stage.

Dear god. What to do—he wasn't the world's best fighter, even he agreed on that. He was the brains behind the operation; the ruthless mastermind behind the schemes that sent other people to fight for him. He wasn't meant to end up dropped right in the middle of it. He raised his bayonet, wondering if he had a chance of living this one out.

However, Lord Leonard didn't want him dead, so the men would have to somehow restrain him. And he was not in a very good mood. Beckett plunged his bayonet into the first of the advancing men, and the audience gave a collective 'ooh'. Then they all suddenly seemed to remember the rotten fruit and vegetables that they had brought to throw at the one in the stocks, and a barrage of disgusting substances made their way to the stage. Obviously, they had been aiming for Beckett, but seeing as these people weren't exactly brain surgeons, had probably had quite a bit to drink, and Beckett was moving around all the time, the fruit rained down everywhere within three metres of where the battle was taking place.

One of the soldiers was nailed in the face by an egg—Beckett took the opportunity to kick him off of the raised platform on which the hanging was supposed to be taking place. The spectators all 'ahh'd, and began hollering shouts of encouragement.

"Get 'im form behind!"

"Watch out!"

"Fight! Fight! Fight!"

"Behind you!"

"Wooooh! Use the muskets!"

"Kill that pirate scum!"

Audrey had found two rings of keys, and freed one of her hands from a shackle, when a soldier suddenly grabbed her by the arm. She swiped out at him with one hand, and though it was a frail shot, the man suddenly screamed and fell back, clutching his face. Audrey realized then that her shackle, still attached to one hand, had whipped into his face, the metal scraping against skin.

"S-sorry," she stammered, when her son appeared out of nowhere and speared the man through the chest with his bayonet.

"Let's get out of... augh!" Beckett gave a cry of pain as one of the soldiers managed to pin him in the shoulder with their own bayonet. He grimaced and clutched his shoulder, while a soldier grabbed him roughly by the collar. There was a smattering of applause from their audience, and few whistles.

"Wahey!" Someone yelled from the crowd.

"Why do they always go for the shoulder?" Beckett muttered under his breath. Audrey opened and closed her mouth as the remaining soldiers relaxed, and one started walking towards her.

"Give me the bayonet," one of the redcoats ordered, reaching out.

"I think I'll keep it, thank you," Beckett said with a polite smile. The man glared at him, and then cuffed him on the shoulder, making Beckett flinch painfully. It was the same shoulder that Elizabeth had shot, all that time ago—the cut went through clothes, sank into flesh, and jarred against bone. Perfect.

"You're going down, Beckett," a soldier hissed, reaching towards Audrey.

There was a gunshot.

----------

Elizabeth couldn't believe what she'd just done.

She dropped the gun like it was red hot, the sound of the shot made William whimper and move his head around, and she turned and dodged through the crowd. Many of them had been too immersed in watching the fight to take much notice of her; but she knew that if just one of them had seen her, which was very likely, word would get out very fast, including a description.

It wasn't too probable that they'd immediately suspect her, though, because she was a woman, and she had a baby. Which were her advantages. She stumbled out of the crowd—which was easy, because everyone was eagerly pressing forwards, practically pushing her out of the way—and quickly slipped down a small side-alley.

After she had hushed William, she watched the drama unfold.

----------

Beckett could only stare in horrified fascination as the soldier's head exploded, right next to him. He ended up covered in blood, and other such substances that he didn't really want to know about. He stuck his stolen bayonet into the nearest soldier to him, wincing as his shoulder protested rather violently, and then turned and yanked his mother to her feet. She still had the shackles attached to one hand, and the keys in the other. The soldier that had been making to grab her was quickly booted off of the stage.

Beckett looked around. The six soldiers that had dashed on stage were gone. Which was good riddance. He jerked his head towards the back way, and he and Audrey quickly made their way to the edge of the stage.

There was a faint boo from somewhere in the audience.

"Oh, shut up," Beckett snapped at them, before leaping from the stage, pushing his mother in front of him. Soldiers spilled out from the direction of the prison, muskets at the ready. They all began arranging themselves in formation, ready to shoot. Beckett gritted his teeth, spun his mother around, and began dragging them down one of the many roads leading from the city centre. Soldiers began running, and Beckett felt his own steps speed up to a sprint.

Suddenly, he heard the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. He turned—and then said a rather obscene word.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" Audrey asked him, wrinkling her nose.

"You know the answer to that, mother," Beckett said, rolling his eyes, "Of course I don't. Now, come on—they've got bloody dragoons after us now." And so they had; behind them, four men on horseback were flying down the street, their horses' hooves throwing sparks off of the cobbles, swords at the ready. These men were especially trained to fight on horseback. Deadly. But they were on the streets—whereas dragoons were better at field battles. His advantage. Time to use it.

They ducked down a side alley as the red-uniformed soldiers on proud thoroughbred horses came charging down the middle of the road. Beckett dragged Audrey down many streets, constantly dodging around corners as redcoats with muskets appeared at every corner. They ended up right in the heart of the web of dark alleyways and grimy streets that were the lowest part of Port Royale.

"They're everywhere!" Beckett exclaimed, as they had to make yet another emergency U-turn to avoid more squadrons of the men in uniform, diving down an empty alleyway. "There's no escape!" Suddenly, he found himself face-to-face with someone rather familiar.

"Beckett, what do you think you are doing?" Elizabeth hissed, "You need to get out of this area! There are redcoats everywhere, and the dragoons are perfectly capable of flushing you out! Have you been going around in circles?"

"Well, possibly," Beckett shrugged, "Where can I go? Every exit seems to be blocked!" Everything was happening obscenely quickly for Beckett. How long had he been running? Minutes? Hours?

"Head back towards the hanging square. There aren't any soldiers there—trust me!" She added the last bit as Beckett shot her a sceptical look. "Head across the square, towards the more uptown areas—you'll know them better."

"Where are _you_ going?" Beckett asked with a frown. Lady Audrey was still trying to catch her breath.

"Look—I'll meet you at the eastern edge, alright? If you're not there in an hour, I'm going. You'd better throw them off," Elizabeth hissed, as William began to grizzle in her arms, "I don't want myself or my baby caught up in all of this!"

"Eastern edge. Right. Good." He blinked at her. "Bye, then."

"Goodbye," Elizabeth said, a touch breathlessly. Beckett grabbed his mother's arm, and they began the run towards the town square. _What in blazes is happening? How could everything turn so insane so quickly?_ Beckett thought, sadly.

* * *

**NB:** Tralala--escape! Or is it? Hmm... anyway, Beckett fought well... uh... sort of. Though perhaps not so much, considering orders were to not kill him. Oh well. He saved his mummy dearest. :) Next chapter contains... well. You know those times when your parents _really_ embarrass you...? 


	12. Ignominy

TWELVE: Ignominy

Lord Leonard lowered his head into his hands, sitting at the stall that had been set up for him and the other rich people who had gathered to watch the hanging. The dragoons were out there, patrolling Port Royale, but apparently Beckett and his mother had slipped into the grimiest, lowest slums of the city, and making themselves very hard to find.

He looked up in time to see two familiar figures streaking across the town square and vanishing down the road.

"Was that... men!" He looked around—and realized that he had deployed all of his men to go and flush them out of the centre of Port Royale's grittier area. He ground his teeth and rested his chin on his hand, seeing Cutler Beckett's face before him—'_See, I would have thought of that, and kept a squadron behind,_' the image of Beckett drawled. Lord Leonard wished he could reach out and punch it.

The crowd of baying peasants had evaporated once it had become clear that there wasn't going to be a hanging—at least, not for a while yet. They were now all wandering down various streets, wondering _who_ that black-haired man had been.

As for Lord Leonard—well, he was pretty certain that it was no other then Cutler Beckett. There was no proof of that, and he hadn't seen much of him, but it had looked enough like him; though Lord Leonard felt that the way Beckett had dealt with the situation had been rather brash and thoughtless, but then again, he must have arrived with minutes to spare.

Lord Leonard had no idea that upon arrival, Beckett and Elizabeth had sat in a pub, arguing lightly. He underestimated Beckett greatly.

Which was, as always, an advantage.

----------

His hour was nearly up when Beckett arrived, he and his mother both looking worn out, and slightly sorry for themselves. Beckett's shoulder was torn up, and he was drenched in blood—some his, some of the unfortunate soldier who had had a hold of him when he'd had his head blasted off. Audrey looked in slightly better condition, though she looked like she was finding it hard to breathe.

Elizabeth felt a great anxiety that had been gnawing at her insides lift—they were here, they were alive! They'd all managed to come out of this one, miraculously alive! Then she quickly disposed of the feeling, scolding herself that she shouldn't feel good that Beckett was alive—but being secretly glad anyway.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't get here on time," Elizabeth said. William lay asleep in her arms—she'd nursed and changed him in the time that Beckett had been gone. It had obviously taken a while to throw off the dragoons.

"Bloody hell, Elizabeth," Beckett said weakly, "That shot nearly took my head off..."

"Sorry," Elizabeth said, with real remorse in her voice, "I did tell you that I wasn't that much of a good shot."

"I didn't know you knew any women, Cutler," Audrey said, frowning.

"There are a lot of things you don't know, mother. Now, kindly go back to being silent." Beckett said, sounding annoyed. Elizabeth shook her head—after going to all of that trouble, and facing all of that danger to save her life, he was still acting offhanded and slightly distasteful of her. Which was just typical of him.

_Oh, this is going to be fun,_ Elizabeth thought, looking from Beckett to his mother and back again, _very fun indeed._

----------

"Can we rest? My feet are hurting," Audrey complained as they walked; they were going directly up a steep hill, so it was no wonder really. Elizabeth turned to her, and saw a large pout form on her lips as she complained... wow. Elizabeth could actually _see_ Cutler Beckett in her.

"Mother, your _neck_ would be hurting rather a lot right now if not for me. I'm sure those dragoons didn't go home for a nice cup of tea once they realized that we were no longer in Port Royale. So keep walking, be brave now," Beckett said, sardonically.

"I'm going to forgive you for talking to me like that, because these are unusual circumstances," Audrey said, though there was a scolding tone to her voice.

Beckett did nothing but go slightly pink with anger at this. His shoulder was killing him, he was tired, hungry and frustrated, his life was over... and his mother seemed determined to try to embarrass him! Sigh... how could life be any worse?

"Where are we even headed to?" Elizabeth asked, as they walked through another gate into a field. Port Royale was behind them now, and it was well into the evening.

"It doesn't matter too much where we're going to be—we just have to get away from Port Royale. I could do without being at the receiving end of four dragoons again." Beckett said, looking out ahead of him, "I'm sure there'll be another barn somewhere. I have to get the slash on my shoulder seen to. And wash some of this blood off of me. And steal some other clothes. Oh, and probably get this boot polish off of my hair, too..."

"Yes. Right," Elizabeth looked downwards as she walked, picking her way through the lumpy field carefully.

"So, mother... did you actually find out anything that could help us?" Beckett asked her, looking like he doubted it highly, but might as well ask in any case. Audrey thought for a minute, and they walked in silence.

"Well, the man who seemed to be in charge of it all was Lord Leonard," Audrey said finally. Beckett showed no recognition.

"Who's he?" He asked, with a frown.

"Augustus. Augustus Leonard—he's a lord now. He took your place," Audrey explained. Beckett blinked, and then sighed theatrically.

"Oh, not that pillock," Beckett groaned, "He's always had an unreasonably massive grudge against me, for no reason whatsoever!" Elizabeth snorted, obviously not believing him. "It's true," Beckett insisted, "All I did was beat him at chess... once!"

"Beckett. Please excuse me for not believing you," Elizabeth rolled her eyes, "But I know that you are quite capable of driving someone absolutely crazy with your insanely gigantic ego and your habit of spewing a thousand snarky come-backs per hour," she grinned. Beckett looked offended.

"I don't know what you mean," he said casually, though a small smirk was tugging at the edge of his lips.

"You know exactly what I mean—and you take pride in it, too," Elizabeth shook her head, exasperated. It was only when Audrey coughed that they remembered her existence.

"He kept on saying all of these horrible things, about how he was going to get you hanged, and he wasn't even going to hold a trial—apparently he held a trial for me, but I wasn't even there! He just said that he had to 'pull a few strings'... I mean... what does that mean?" Audrey sighed, "I don't know anything about politics."

"_Lord_ Leonard wants me dead on account of being a tosser who has nothing better to do, and he's probably also afraid I'll steal back my _rightful_ position," Beckett said, inspecting a nail, "Because I'm beginning to see something here... you say he took up my old position?"

"Yes... and did you just swear?" Audrey demanded.

"Why, yes, I did," Beckett said, annoyance clear in his voice. Elizabeth had to stifle a laugh. "I am a grown man, in case you didn't notice, though I suppose you wouldn't, seeing as you spent my childhood ignoring me."

"You can't talk to me like that," Audrey whispered, "I'm your mother!"

"Well, I couldn't talk to you like that back when everything was proper and how-do-you-do, but really, I think we are beyond that now," Beckett sighed and rubbed a strand of fringe between his thumb and forefinger, making a large black smear appear on his hand from the polish. Elizabeth had scrubbed his head over good with that gunk.

"But..." Audrey trailed off, unable to find a reply to that. Her son had always been polite, neat and aloof in her presence before—the change was rather dramatic. The sad thing was, _this_ was more of a friendly tone then he had used with her before.

"If we ever manage to get our lives back to normal, things go back to the way they were before, hmm? But for now, I'm a little worn out to bother with niceties," Beckett shook his head, though his inner gentleman seemed to surface for a moment, "But for the books, I am sorry for being rude to you."

"Oh, but you're never sorry for being rude to _me_, of course" Elizabeth said, rolling her eyes.

"Cutler, who is this woman?" Audrey asked, wrinkling her brow.

"That's Elizabeth Swann, mother," Beckett said wearily, hopping over a style through to another field. Audrey blinked, seeming surprised, and then looked at Elizabeth closely as they trudged on.

"_Really_?" She asked, "The one who ran off to join the pirates? And left behind her father and that nice Norrington boy?"

"Really," Beckett said, looking slightly uncomfortable at the mention of Elizabeth's father. That was something that he felt was not going to fade from their memories any time soon. Elizabeth's expression hardened notably, too.

"So have you really turned pirate, then, Cutler? If you're with her..." Audrey wrinkled her nose, "And the baby?"

"Not mine," Beckett said quickly.

"I married Will Turner. This is our son," Elizabeth smiled.

"Will Turner, the blacksmith—yes, I remember people talking about it. Apparently it was quite the scandal," Audrey shrugged at Elizabeth's expression, "I only know what I was told."

"People will say the most spiteful things," Elizabeth muttered to herself.

"When are you going to get yourself another woman, Cutler?" Audrey asked.

"_Another_ woman? Ooh, hello—I didn't know you'd been married before," Elizabeth grinned, though she was interested. Beckett frowned.

"That's funny, because neither do I. I think my mother is just being confused again," Beckett rolled his eyes, "She always was under the impression that if I said one nice thing to a woman, we were obviously heading directly towards a happy marriage."

"There's a reason for that," Audrey sighed, "You are just so rarely nice to girls! That poor Freda Tellerman was almost in tears when you told her exactly what you thought of her dress," Audrey sounded scolding, but Beckett was smiling at the memory. "You're not meant to be truthful, you know. And there was Elaine Carr—the one you labelled forever as 'monobrow.' Oh, and so many more... I really don't know why so many women carried on being so interested in you." Elizabeth suspected that this had something to do with his immense wealth.

"I do remember," she said slowly, "A girl called Darla Dunlap saying to me once that when she asked you if you thought her hair looked good that night, you replied with 'passable'." Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, thinking about how Darla had carried on to say how 'smooth' he'd looked that night. And she thought about how Beckett couldn't possibly know this little about women. It must be impossible, she reasoned, for someone as intelligent as Beckett to be so incredibly idiotic when coming to something as basic as the original 'does my bum look big in this' moments of life. You did _not_ say that a woman's hair looked 'passable'!

"Good times," Beckett said happily.

"Anyway, I just don't know, but am I ever going to get any grandchildren? Though being a grandmother does sound rather _old_..." Audrey sounded like she was thinking aloud now. Elizabeth snickered, and Beckett shot his mother a filthy look.

"Mother, did you know that talking excessively gives you wrinkles?" He asked her sweetly. Audrey Beckett opened her mouth—and then closed it again, seeming to think about it.

* * *

**NB:** I don't know why I added the last few paragraphs of conversation--it just seemed... Beckettish. Anyhow; next chapter--money matters, madness, mother's boys! Can't beat some good old alliteration... 


	13. Tarnishes

THIRTEEN: Tarnishes

As night fell, it became obvious that the dangerous convicts Cutler and Audrey Beckett had escaped. Lord Leonard was not in a very good mood about this at all. It was as if Beckett was still laughing in his face.

Ugh. There was just something about that man that really, really bugged Lord Leonard. And can't you just tell? Even he had to admit that Beckett had been a smart man, and he'd done a lot for the company, all of that jazz... but that wasn't a reason to _like_ him. He was just so... smug all of the time. Arrogant, haughty and full of himself. And Lord Leonard felt that Beckett, now that he was discovered, was probably thinking about becoming Lord Beckett once more.

If only Lord Beckett had decided to keep hidden for another ten months—then he would have been declared legally dead, and his money would have been passed on; mostly to his closest living relative, which ironically worked out to be his mother, but a sizeable chunk would have gone to the East India Trading Company too.

He'd been looking forwards to getting his hands on all of the money.

Still, I'll go into more detail about Beckett's rather messy financial screw-up concerning his death/not death later on, when it's more relevant. For now, you don't need to know. (For the books—I did research on this!)

The dragoons had said that they'd nearly caught him a few times, but 'nearly' was never good enough. Still, Lord Leonard was keeping the dragoons on commission; dragoons were always helpful. They'd explained that horseback fighting wasn't suited to alleyways and roadsides, and Lord Leonard had agreed.

But this search was about to get ugly. Posters of the Becketts were going to be _everywhere_ by the next day. Though he knew that they wouldn't help too much, as poster pictures weren't always accurate, and the simplest disguises worked simply because nobody expected it to happen to _them_, it was good to do something. Lord Leonard sighed, and tried to get on with more of the official paperwork that was constantly bogging up his job. He hadn't known that being a lord was full of signatures and authorized charters—but then again, who did until they tried it?

Still, paperwork or no paperwork, his title was not something he was going to allow to be handed over to Cutler 'I'm not actually dead so give my position back to me!' Beckett.

And that was final.

----------

"What _is_ this?" Beckett wrinkled his nose as Elizabeth came back. They'd walked until the sun had started setting, and then found one of the many barns dotting the countryside, and then Beckett had sent Elizabeth to the nearest village for a number of things—food, clothes, and anything else that could be useful in an innocent way. She'd noticed an increase in redcoat activity, though; they seemed to be everywhere.

She'd been rather worried, going back to the barn with a nice big bag of supplies; she'd left William in the care of the two Becketts, and that certainly did not inspire hope to her heart. The fact that they were being searched for by every single soldier in the area made things no better.

But, lo and behold... she'd come back and found them safe and sound. And slightly annoying. So everything was normal!

"It's... oh, something, just try it. Apparently it tastes of chicken," Elizabeth waved an arm vaguely. Beckett frowned, and Elizabeth sighed, "At least it's warm!"

"Yes, but everything that you have never eaten tastes of chicken," Beckett said, "Apart from ginger." He closed his eyes, "That made very little sense. I'm not going to try to explain it. If you listen to rumour, everything tastes of chicken apart from ginger—the end. Forgive me. I'm tired."

"What does ginger taste of, then?" Elizabeth asked, sitting down on a bale of hay. Beckett gave her one of those looks.

"Ginger," he said. Then he took a bite.

"What're we going to do?" Audrey asked, a touch timidly. She wasn't used to this sort of talk. These two were supposed to be well-mannered, well-brought-up aristocrats... not a bantering pair of peasants! What was becoming of her son? He still retained his accent, long words and somewhat genteel behaviour, but she had a feeling that it was deteriorating.

"Here, allow me, mother," Beckett said smoothly, sticking a key in the shackle, which was still attached to one of her wrists, and removing it. His mother had had a bunch of keys, but she had been fiddling with it on the way, and now, only the key to the shackles remained. They seemed to have forgotten about it in all of their haste.

"You're avoiding the question, aren't you?" Audrey asked him pointedly.

"Yes, that last bit of shopping has left the funds wearing a bit thin," Elizabeth frowned, "I hope you know what you're doing."

"I do know what I'm doing," Beckett said, once he had finished his mouthful, "There will be enough money soon enough, don't you worry."

"You're not planning on robbing a bank or something, are you?" Audrey asked, sounding worried.

"No, mother," Beckett muttered, getting to his feet. "Now, if you two don't mind, I have a cut on my shoulder to get seen to. I saw a water pump out there... I should probably get all of this... gore off of me," he rubbed a finger across his cheek, and found a dark browny crimson stain on his finger.

"I didn't know the gun would do so much damage," Elizabeth said, lowering her eyes. She had killed in her time—but she thought that she had made it a principle of hers to stop killing now.

How could she go against her principles for someone like Beckett? She just didn't understand it.

----------

Beckett looked down at his shoulder, which, admittedly, had taken a bit of a beating. He supposed that he could deduct from this that whenever someone was attacking him, his reaction was to dodge right, seeing as it was his left shoulder that got all of the damage. The bullet-would was still there—an odd whorl in his skin, a pale welt that would always be there, near to his collarbone, scarily close to his heart. It certainly wasn't pretty.

But what was a few bullets between friends? Beckett rolled his eyes as he finished pumping water into a bucket with his good hand, and started cleaning the wound. He'd already given his hair a good scrub, and _most_ of the boot polish had come out... He winced slightly as the cold water splashed over the wound—bayonets were made to kill, and he certainly had been doing a lot of that today—but he felt no guilt, as such.

He'd never lost a night's sleep over the amount of people who had died because of him—there were far too many of them to remember, and good sleep was important, after all. A good night's rest... oh, what he'd give for one of them right about now. But he had spent the last few nights plotting, thinking, and—funnily enough—worrying. Sigh—a person like him was not meant to _worry_.

Still... he knew that he had a nice piece of leverage right there in front of him. He just had to handle it correctly. He dried his shoulder, and inspected the cut. A nasty little leer across his shoulder—yes, he saw it as a leer now—and decided it was clean enough. He was beginning the struggle of fixing a bandage around his shoulder when he heard something behind him. He turned his head around from where he was sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"What're you gawping at?" He demanded, seeing that Elizabeth and his mother had both stuck their heads out from behind the barn door.

"You were talking to yourself," Audrey said, pursing her lips.

"What?" Beckett seemed confused. Elizabeth let a blank, zoned-out expression come to her face.

"What's a few bullets between friends?" She said in a zombie voice, "A good sleep's very important." She snickered as Beckett bit his lip. "And you said something about leverage, too," she added, her voice becoming more serious.

"I'm starting to think that the newspapers weren't lying about you," Audrey said, raising an eyebrow.

"What newspapers?" Beckett was caught in two conversations, both of which were insulting him.

"You know, the newspapers are writing that you're a nutcase?" Elizabeth tapped the side of her head and whistled. "I think you're missing a few bolts, Beckett, if you know what I mean." Beckett glared at her.

"I was just thinking aloud," he said, somewhat weakly. Elizabeth laughed.

"How's the cut?" She asked.

"Oh, it's excellent," Beckett drawled, "Just perfect. Right along with that nice bullet-hole you left in me. It's just fantastic."

"Glad to hear it," Elizabeth said, craning her neck to see said bullet-would—she was sort of horribly fascinated in seeing what a bullet-hole in a person looked like—but Beckett kept his back to her and pulled on the shirt she'd stolen, beginning to button it up curtly. His head turned a fraction towards them.

"You two can go now," he said.

Elizabeth and Audrey both closed the barn door.

----------

"You shot my son?" Audrey asked Elizabeth as they walked back towards the bales of hay at the back of the barn, where they would be staying. Elizabeth sighed.

"Yes. It was a long time ago, though," Elizabeth said, walking up to the pile of hay where she had put William down. He was awake now, and gurgled placidly as she picked him up. "Back when we were enemies. You know?"

"So you're not enemies now?" Audrey asked, uncertainly.

"I have no idea," Elizabeth shrugged, "He's annoying, arrogant, a complete bastard... yet sometimes, he just has these moments of... _nice_," She sighed at this point, "Though he always ruins it by balancing it out with a horrible thing."

"Yes... I... I suppose he did save my life," Audrey said with a nervous laugh, "That's got to be a good thing... I wasn't certain if my boy would actually do it or not."

"He is just an utterly infuriating and perplexing man," Elizabeth said, kissing William on the head and sitting herself down to see if her son needed changing.

----------

Beckett grinned wolfishly to himself as he eavesdropped on their conversation, leaning against a large cart full of hay that was 'parked' around the back of the barn. Well, they'd eavesdropped on his one with... uh, himself, so he felt he had the right. Anyway, it wasn't his fault that their voices carried so far. An utterly infuriating and perplexing man? Why, it did have a certain ring to it. Though this 'niceness' that Elizabeth kept on insisting he had should stop. Really.

Annoying? Well, he did try. Arrogant? Better then being a self-hating pessimist. A complete bastard? Why, thank you, Elizabeth. After that little snippet, Beckett picked up the blood-stained naval uniform that he had bagged for the big breaking-out trick, and walked off to dispose of it somewhere.

The success of the rescuing of his mother had him feeling particularly pleased with himself.

----------

Once Elizabeth had changed the cotton nappy that she used for William—that is to say, cleaned him up and given him a new one, and tucked the old one away down behind some bales of hay—she was cradling William once more, smiling at him all the time. The nappies in those days were meant to be washed and reused, technically, but Elizabeth was in no mood for that at the moment. Audrey seemed like she wanted to say something, but was searching for the right words.

"I wish I could get on with my son as well as you do with yours," she finally said, slowly, and somewhat sadly. "I didn't take care of him as a baby."

"What do you mean?" Elizabeth asked, looking up at Audrey. She felt interested in the affairs of the Beckett family, for some reason—she supposed that there was just still some part of her that wanted to know all of the gossip about the 'celebrity' families of Port Royale. And it was fascinating, in a terrible sort of way, too.

"Oh, I don't... it's just... there were just always servants around to do everything. I suppose he was just something to push around in a pram at dinner parties, show off to the other women there," Audrey frowned, like she was noticing all of this for the first time in her life.

"I never liked the high-life society," Elizabeth muttered. Audrey made a noncommittal sound in her throat. "It's hard to get close to people." Though Elizabeth noted that she had never met a parent and a child who had gotten on as badly as Cutler Beckett and his mother. She supposed it was just the luck of the draw.

"I don't know," was all Audrey said, sort of quietly. Elizabeth felt rather sorry for her—she had no idea what she'd do if her son turned out like Beckett had. If she tried to hug her son, she would probably come out of it bleeding slightly.

"I'm sure that he loves you in his own strange, demented way," Elizabeth said kindly, "He is your son, after all. And he came to rescue you—in fact, he was more determined then I'd ever seen him to save you... no matter how stupid his plan was," she shrugged, "I guess every man's a mother's boy."

* * *

**NB:** How rude of me--I forgot all about Thanksgiving! We don't celebrate it here in England... at least... nobody that I know of does. So I hope everyone has had a happy Thanksgiving! Or is having one! I don't really know much about this kind of thing, heh heh... just... hope it's a good 'un. :D 


	14. Loathing

FORTEEN: Loathing

Things went normally enough that night. It was the morning when everything really kicked off. Once everyone was dressed, washed, fed and ready, Elizabeth finally felt more relaxed. For once they weren't in danger of being murdered by redcoats, being hung by the government, or run down by dragoons. Which was always a good thing.

But danger was coming from a different angle that morning; for her, at least...

Beckett was rather quiet that morning, and slightly sullen—and he also seemed to be determined to not look at her. Elizabeth was rather annoyed by it all; he wasn't acting normal, just sitting on the hay, fiddling with the pair of shackles that Audrey had been restrained with.

"Are you feeling alright, Beckett?" Elizabeth asked, finally. He seemed to mull the question over for a minute, in a way that was typical of Cutler Beckett and rhetorical questions.

"I feel surprisingly bad," he finally said, "I didn't really expect it."

"Well, that's helpful," Elizabeth said, turning away from him. And then, suddenly, she felt up to her ears in straw as her face was buried in an entire pile of the stuff, her front pressed against the hard floor. She felt two knees in her back, and an arm being yanked around behind her. She managed to pull her face up from the floor, and shrieked, "Beckett!"

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth," he said through gritted teeth, clicking the shackles together with a resounding crack, "It's the only way to get things back to normal."

"_What_?" Elizabeth cried, thrashing around. Beckett's hand shot to her hip and grabbed her sword from the sheath, tossing it away, before he stood up, dragging her up by her shackles. "I am going to _kill_ you, Beckett," she snarled, tugging on the shackles—one of them was attached to her own wrist, and the other to Beckett's.

"Yes, yes," Beckett sighed, "I _am_ sorry, Elizabeth, which is quite surprising. But it's the only way I can think of that will make things right again."

"_Right_?" Elizabeth's voice was shrill with rage, "Not for _me_! Not for William!" Audrey ran in from the side, looking scared—probably wondering what was causing all of the shouting. She looked at Beckett and Elizabeth, cuffed to each other in the middle of the barn, and a look of confusion spread over her face.

"What's happening?" She asked.

"I'm sorting out this mess," Beckett said, "I'm finishing this. I'm handing Elizabeth over to the redcoats."

"You can't! You just... can't!" Elizabeth cried, as Beckett began walking towards the barn door, dragging Elizabeth behind him. She dug her heels in, and he yanked on the shackles, making her stumbled forwards—she hadn't known that Beckett was so strong. It must have been all of that working in the navy... which he was none to pleased about, in any case. "What about William?"

"Cutler... aren't you being a bit... brash?" Audrey asked, tentatively.

"No, because I have been thinking about this for a while now. And I did try to come up with alternatives—really, I did," Beckett said, to Elizabeth's disgusted look. "But there's nothing else that would work... you understand, don't you?"

"I understand that you are a filthy, backstabbing, lying bastard!" Elizabeth shouted—she always was ruled by her emotions. "You can't do this!"

"Well... I am," Beckett said, "I said sorry, didn't I?"

"Oh, _that's_ alright then!" Elizabeth said, theatrically throwing one arm in the air, the other one restrained by the shackles, "As long as you apologize, it's fine to _send me to my death_!" She pushed him the shoulder, and succeeded in knocking both of them backwards a little, "You cheating, lying, filthy little..."

"You two..." Audrey said helplessly, wondering if this was just a phase that they'd get over or something. They always seemed to be fighting over one thing or another.

"Mother, you stay here and keep an eye on William. When we're clear, I'll come back and we can go back to normal again... see?" Beckett shrugged, "It's a perfectly reasonable plan..."

"Apart from the fact that you are sending someone who has helped you and saved your life several times to their death!" Elizabeth snarled, her shouting was over with, but she was still spitting venom over this, "I thought that I could trust you! I helped you out when you were at your lowest, alone and lost and scared, and this is how you pay me back?"

"Well, let's think about how I _ended up_ lost, alone and scared, eh?" Beckett asked her, his temper beginning to rise, which didn't happen too often, "If a certain little snitchy _someone_ hadn't sent a certain letter, none of this would have happened!"

"You left me on that island, to take care of my baby by my self—left me on my own to join the bloody navy!" Elizabeth argued back, "Then you sent me that little letter of yours, taunting and snide, _as always_... it was just right that it should be your downfall!" She lashed out at him, and sent them both rocketing backwards into some hay. Beckett pushed her to her feet, trying to keep a hold of his rapidly declining composure.

"Elizabeth, you have killed me three times now. So, really, me killing you once is only a third of what you deserve—understand?" Beckett snarled at her. "You blew me up on the _Endeavour_. You shot me on your little island. And then you sent that bloody letter." Oh, what jollies.

"Beckett, you can't do this!" Elizabeth felt her building rage collapse into a heap of helplessness in her stomach, "You know they'd want to hang me! After everything we've been through—and my baby..." Elizabeth felt her breath catching in her throat.

"I can do this," Beckett said through gritted teeth, "You're not making this any easier, but I have to do this." He jerked on the shackles, making her stumble once more towards the barn doors, "Come on."

"Cutler..." Audrey felt helpless to do anything, "I thought what they said about my boy wasn't true..."

"I'm not 'your boy'!" Beckett rolled his eyes, the frustration and building anger at what he was doing visible. Audrey stared at him, as if she couldn't believe what he'd just said. She couldn't—he'd never been like this before. A mixture of emotion was making Beckett feel like he needed much more rest... he felt tired now. This had been happening a lot lately.

As his mother and Elizabeth both stared at him, he couldn't find a single word, a single way to express what he was feeling. And that wasn't meant to happen to people like _him_.

He turned and strode out of the barn, Elizabeth dragging behind him.

----------

"Look, if it makes you feel any better, I'll make sure no harm comes to William... alright?" Beckett asked, tightly. They'd been walking in complete stony silence for the last hour, each of them nursing the wounds that they had picked up during their argument. Not all of them physical.

"What about me?" Elizabeth asked in a small voice. She didn't want William to be raised without her. With no mother to care for him—just some woman that he didn't know. No woman deserved a baby as beautiful as William. As for Will, his father—she would never be there to meet him. He would come back to an uninhabited island, the air thick with broken dreams and broken hearts.

No. It was all wrong. She was only just about beginning to take in the horror of her situation—how terrible it was. She was going to die. Her baby was going to be given to someone else. Will would think that she failed to wait for him. It was all going wrong. And it was all the fault of one man.

"I... I _will_ try," Beckett said, though there was no conviction in his voice. They both knew that he would be on shaky ground enough as it was already, and bringing the ex-Pirate King to the government, only to ask that she wasn't hanged, would probably put him under quite a bit of suspicion. Probably enough to get him hanged too.

Life was cruel. And the EITC was even more so.

"How can you do this, Beckett?" Elizabeth asked, looking at him, trying to force him to look into her eyes—she wanted to break him. "Have you no soul? No heart?"

"At one point, I was in possession of two," Beckett said somewhat carefully, "But those days are long over now. I think that there is no call for hearts in these times... your husband knows that, doesn't he?"

"How dare you poke fun?" Elizabeth hissed, her eyes narrowing.

"I'm not poking fun, Elizabeth," Beckett said, sighing, "I was just-,"

"It's Mrs Turner to you," Elizabeth spat at him, yanking on the shackles for good measure. It hurt her wrist as much as it hurt his, but any pain on his part was preferable to none. And his cut shoulder should help.

"Look, _Mrs Turner_, I'm only-,"

"You are 'only' ruining three lives completely and utterly beyond redemption for your own ends! Just so that you can go back to sipping brandy in your mahogany clone of every other office in the country, counting out gold coins that you earned by killing," she shook her head as her tone lowered to an even more venomous point, "You make me sick."

"And _you've_ never used anyone for your own ends, good heavens, no!" Beckett replied, his cheeks beginning to flush pink as his blood pressure rose another couple of notches.

Elizabeth stared at him, as names began to wash over her mind. Sao Feng, and tricking him into continuing to believe she was Calypso to free the crew. James Norrington, accepting his proposal to save Will. Even Jack Sparrow, to save the _Black Pearl_ crew. Dead. They'd all ended up dead. Though they had gone back to get Jack. And in any case...

"Whenever I 'used' someone, it wasn't for myself, it was for the good of others," Elizabeth snapped, "You should try it sometime."

"The good of others, _apart_ from the person you used and their families," Beckett corrected her.

"Oh! And you're using the 'families of the victims' on _me_, huh? How many people have you killed, Beckett, can you even count them?" Elizabeth asked, her eyes blazing.

"I didn't say I've never killed anyone—I was just reminding you that _you_ have killed too, so you can't exactly play the innocent one. After all, I've been on the receiving end of your deaths several times." Beckett rolled his eyes.

"Oh, will you stop reminding me?" Elizabeth growled, "The first two times I 'killed' you, I didn't even know you—I had met you, what, three, four times?" She shook her head, "And I didn't mean to 'kill' you with the letter; it was only meant to annoy you, it was just a joke to make people suspicious. I didn't think that..."

"You didn't think full stop," Beckett snapped, "And it's not only me who will be benefiting from this—my mother, too."

"Sure, _sure_ you were thinking about your mother when you were deciding whether to hand me to the government or not," Elizabeth glared at him, "You hate your mother! I've seen the way you talk to her, the way you look at her! You don't care whether she lives or dies, you're just in it for-," she was cut off as Beckett suddenly yanked on the shackles and gripped her by the collar of her shirt, the fabric bunching up in his fist as he brought them face to face.

"You have no right to make assumptions like that about things you don't understand," Beckett said poisonously, his eyes burning, "Believe it or not, this _is_ costing me. But I have to do it." He released her and turned away again, beginning to walk once more, his face set with a hard determination.

"Well, I don't believe you," Elizabeth muttered under her breath as she was dragged behind him, her face pointed downwards.

* * *

**NB:** Grim chapter. Next one becomes more lighthearted, I swear--things don't go so well for our cuffed duo; and Audrey back in the barn is having some doubts. 


	15. Fallibility

FIFTEEN: Fallibility

Audrey sighed to herself as she looked down at little sleeping William. What had become of her son? She'd always known that he was slightly cold, with a mean streak that showed through at strange moments, and he was one of the most stubborn lads she had ever met. However aloof he tended to act, he was her son; polite, well-meaning Cutler Beckett.

Until now.

_I'm not 'your boy'!_ She didn't know why she always called him that. She just did. It had never occurred to her that it might annoy him—well, nothing much about her son had ever occurred to her. Now, she felt like the barely knew him. _I suppose you wouldn't, seeing as you spent my childhood ignoring me._ She hadn't. She hadn't meant to.

It had just... turned out that way. And now she felt so distanced from him, that it wasn't even funny—immersed in her world, her entire world of dinner parties, gossip and endless cups of tea, she hadn't really ever thought about it.

They said so many nice things about her son. An asset, they called him. He worked for a trading company that was 'revolutionizing the New World'. He helped in the task of ridding the world of dirty, murderous pirates. He was a very clever man who had worked out many things in his time, for the good of the world. They said so many nice things about her son.

But what 'they' said was two-sided. A double-edged sword. Whispers of his cold nature, his ruthless demeanour, his determination beyond anything to get whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Beckett's image was one of the most squeaky-clean in the entire upper-class world, seeing as he covered his tracks well... but just occasionally, there were whispers.

Jealousy, she'd put them down to. But now she wasn't so sure.

She stroked the tiny baby's head, thinking about what her son—her little boy—was doing at that very moment. The wind whistled and whooped outside. Audrey Beckett sat herself down on the bale of hay, next to the baby, the cream-coloured dress that Elizabeth had stolen for her, to get her out of her recognizable gown, crinkling.

And she hoped that her boy had made the right decision.

----------

"I'm not moving," Elizabeth said obstinately, folding her arms. She was sitting, in the middle of a field, her nose in the air. She had dragged her arm downwards, forcing Beckett to bend over slightly.

"Don't be so childish," Beckett snapped, "Get up." The redcoats could get back and find his mother and William at any time! They had to make haste! But Elizabeth was refusing to move. "Look, it's downhill all the way from here," he waved an arm down the steep hillside that Elizabeth, his mother and he had had to climb up yesterday.

"Oh, _that's_ alright then," Elizabeth sniffed, "No. I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't make me pick you up," Beckett threatened.

"Like you would!" Elizabeth snapped at him. Beckett glared at her for a moment.

"Fine—fine then. You brought this on yourself," Beckett muttered, and then he bent down, but his shoulder to her stomach, and then heaved upwards, so that Elizabeth was thrown over his shoulder. Elizabeth immediately began thrashing, kicking and hitting him.

"_Let go of me_!" She screamed at him.

"You-," Elizabeth suddenly kicked off of him, the chain of the shackles dragging Beckett backwards, and then she wound the chain around his neck.

"Don't move," she hissed, pulling the chain taut around his neck, her face directly next to his—they were pressed against each other, Elizabeth holding the chunky chain steady, finding this strangely familiar. Of course... Jack Sparrow, on their first ever meeting.

"Very good, Mrs Turner," Beckett drawled, "But you forgot one thing."

"What?"

"I have the other end." With that, Beckett flicked his arm upwards, bucking his head backwards to avoid having his chin sliced off, and then flicked his hand so that the chain ended up hitting Elizabeth in the face. She made a sound like an angry cat. "Look, must we resort to childish fighting?"

"It seems so," Elizabeth snarled, and then aimed a kick at Beckett that toppled him backwards—over the edge of the field and onto the steep hill below him. The force of the kick had pushed him quite a length, and because of the chain, Elizabeth was sent toppling after him; as Beckett made to say something, she landed on his stomach with quite a lot of force, rendering him winded. As she rolled further down the hill, she pulled Beckett along, who in turn landed on her, and then continued falling.

Elizabeth shrieked, but could do nothing more, as they picked up speed—falling and falling down the hillside, cutting through long grass in a tangle of limbs and clothes, blue sky, dark mud and green grass all whizzing around their whirling vision. Beckett was still trying to work out how to breathe as the shackle chain wound its way around his neck and pulled his arm over one shoulder.

Beckett landed face-first in the grass with a thump, before the taut chain pulled him over Elizabeth and rolled him onto his back, and then he felt Elizabeth hurtling over him, and he was once again jerked downwards. This continued, increasing in speed all the while. Beckett didn't even have time to think anything more than _this is so uncivilised... _

They were going faster and faster—and all the while, Elizabeth was trying to get as many punches on Beckett as she possibly could, and he was trying to restrain her. Hands were jammed against necks, smacked against faces and sank into stomachs as they both rolled over and over each other. Eventually they both gave up on trying to harm each other, and concentrated on trying to stay alive. Elizabeth tried to grab a hold of the long grass around them that they were cutting through as they rolled, but it all came out in her hands.

Beckett was still trying to pull his throat free of the chain when he hit a fence post with a resounding thunk and clatter. _That wasn't too bad,_ he thought, and then Elizabeth smacked into him from above, and he felt like he'd been buried.

The fence post rattled for several seconds afterwards.

----------

Beckett whipped his arm around his head, getting rid of the chain, and took a deep breath, coughing, and wondering if he had concussion. His upper back ached from where it had smacked into the fence post, his neck hurt from the chain, his shoulder was _on fire_, and he was acutely aware of Elizabeth's elbow in his stomach. He pushed her to get off of him, and she flopped to the grass.

"Mrs Turner?" Beckett asked, prodding her. Then he realized—she'd smacked the fence post with her head! He rolled her over, and saw a nice bruise already beginning to develop smack bang in the middle of her forehead. He shook her gently, to absolutely no response. "Elizabeth!"

He slapped her cheek gently—and thought for a moment about slapping her cheek very hard, but decided against it. He dragged himself to his feet, bent double because his arm was still attached to hers, and because his upper back was really beginning to sting now. He closed his eyes and exhaled in frustration. He touched a hand to his cheek, and found blood on his finger. The little wildcat had scratched him!

Well, it looked like he had no choice but to carry her now.

----------

"Huh?" Elizabeth's eyes fluttered open, about two hours later. It was nearly midday, and the sun was hard on her, even though it was only April—summer had decided to come early with a vengeance that day. Though the weather was so unpredictable that spring—the grass was still wet from the rain of not so long ago.

"Well, I'm glad _you're_ awake," Beckett muttered resentfully, throwing her off of his back and onto the grass heavily, and nearly making himself fall over in the process.

"My head hurts," Elizabeth said wearily in reply, putting a hand to her forehead.

"Oh, really? Well, let's see, my back hurts, my shoulder, my stomach, my neck—oh, forget it, I just hurt all over, seeing as I just fell two miles down a mountain, and then had you use me as a _cushion_!" Beckett huffed.

"Sorry," Elizabeth giggled guiltily. Beckett realized that she was possibly still a little concussed, and with a little luck, had even lost some of her memory!

"Do you... eh... remember anything, Elizabeth?" Beckett asked, carefully. His heart sank as Elizabeth's smile immediately changed to a look of pure hate. Damn, now this was going to be even harder.

"Yes, thanks for reminding me," Elizabeth growled, "Look what you did, you utter ass! My head is killing me!"

"You're blaming _me_?" Beckett looked offended, "Listen, Mrs Turner, if you hadn't been an almighty nobbins and decided it would be clever to try and kick me down a hillside while shackled to me, then none of this would have happened!"

"Well, if you hadn't tried to pick me up-!" Elizabeth started, only to be interrupted.

"If you hadn't refused to move-," Beckett began.

"If you hadn't tried to hand me over to the government-,"

"If you hadn't sent that letter-,"

"If you hadn't ran away from the island-,"

"If you hadn't trapped me there in the first place-,"

"If you'd just _died when you were supposed to_, none of this would have happened!" Elizabeth shouted at him, her temper reaching boiling point. She glared at him, and Beckett glared back.

"Well, pardon me for _living_! Now... come on," he hissed, yanking on the shackles and continuing to drag her towards Port Royale.

* * *

**NB:** Just your everyday walk in the countryside, then...

Next chapter is called 'Temptation'. Hmm--what will become of this, I wonder? There is much hate...


	16. Temptation

SIXTEEN: Temptation

Beckett sighed as they walked through another field. Elizabeth was sulking now, and dragging her feet. The stony silence was filled with a loathing that was almost tangible—Beckett didn't like it, but what could he do? He could hardly expect Elizabeth to carry on chatting and joking to him when he was happily sending her to the gallows.

"Once a traitor, always a traitor," Elizabeth muttered in the sullen silence.

She expected Beckett to make some sneering comeback, but he kept his gaze averted as they walked, and didn't make a sound. _It's alright for you to 'act' sorry—I'm the one that's going to die,_ Elizabeth thought angrily.

"Elizabeth-," Beckett, started.

"Mrs Turner to you. And whatever it is you're about to say, I probably don't want to hear it," Elizabeth said sniffily. Beckett sighed.

"You're being really childish about this," he muttered.

"Oh, gosh, I am so sorry!" Elizabeth waved her free arm, "A man who I saved and trusted to help me has cuffed me, separated me from my baby and is about to hand me over to a bunch of people who want to hang me... and I'm being childish! Oh, how terrible of me!"

"I don't... it's not... I don't have a choice, Elizabeth!" Beckett turned to face her. His face was streaked with dirt and grass-stains, his hair tangled with leaves and grass, and he had a large cut on one cheek and his black eye was back with a vengeance. She'd been attacking him quite viciously on the way down. Elizabeth realized that she was in just as much of a state as he.

"Everything you do is a choice," Elizabeth hissed at him.

"Look, what I've been trying to say while you continuously interrupt me—is that I'm going to try my best to not get you killed, alright?" Beckett glared at her, "So just shut up and... have a little faith in me."

"Faith in Cutler Beckett?" Elizabeth sneered, "I'd rather be dead."

"Well, if you're sure about that, who am I to argue?" Beckett muttered resentfully. Elizabeth wasn't sure what to say to that.

----------

It was two in the afternoon when they arrived in Port Royale—Beckett glanced around himself, as the occasional person wandered past. He'd thought that arrest would be immediate; his face was pasted on every wall in the city, after all. But people didn't even look at him and Elizabeth, just wandered past.

"Hello?" Beckett said to a passer-by. The man looked at him blankly for a moment, and then kept on walking. Even Elizabeth—who had been staring morosely into space for the last hour or so—had to snigger. "What does a man have to do to get arrested around here?"

"You tell me," Elizabeth smirked.

Beckett muttered something under his breath, and began walking through the town, towards the centre, their shackles clinking with every step. Occasionally someone would give their shackles an odd look—but apart from that, nothing. He spied a redcoat eventually, and walked up in front of him, folding his arms and staring him in the face. The soldier looked blank.

"Can I help you?"

"Ugh! I thought I was meant to be famous!" Beckett whined. He exaggeratedly pointed to himself, "Hello—Cutler Beckett?"

Finally, the redcoat's eyes widened in recognition, and he grabbed Beckett, yelling over his shoulder to a couple more soldiers, reaching into a pocket for a pair of shackles

"Don't worry, I've done the liberty of shackling myself," Beckett beamed at him.

"You're handing yourself in? What are you, mad?" The soldier stared at him in disbelief. Beckett rolled his eyes.

"Apparently," he muttered.

----------

Beckett and Elizabeth had both been tossed into a cell, and were sitting in a moody silence as they waited for Lord Leonard to arrive. Beckett had the entire conversation rehearsed in his mind—which was never a good idea—and Elizabeth was wondering what Beckett meant by 'trying to not get her killed'. How could he save her life now? He was under enough suspicion as it was.

She had to get out of there. But she just didn't know how. First, she had to get the shackles off of her; that much was obvious. But how? Any weapons she could use? Her eyes slid the side, narrowing. He must have a weapon on him somewhere.

_His belt,_ she thought, _that gun he had when he first found you—if I am not mistaken, he keeps it in his belt._ Her eyes travelled down, and at his side, she could see the shining barrel sticking out from under his belt, the shirt he wore covering the rest up. She looked back at him, her pulse beginning to quicken. _But... how to get it off of him...?_ She wouldn't be quick enough to dive on it without him stopping her.

She knew that she had no choice. Despite the fact that she always felt desperately, desperately ashamed at having to use her so-called 'feminine charms' to get her way, it had—on occasion—been the only possible way to make sure she, and sometimes others, lived. With a guilty pang, she realized just how many people she had used it against... Jack Sparrow, dead, Sao Feng, dead, James Norrington, dead, Will Turner, dead. Though she had made sure to go and rescue Jack.

And Will. Using it against Will wasn't strictly true; it had been an accident. And he wasn't dead. He was just in the world of the dead. There was a difference.

"Beckett... Cutler," she started, her heart hammering. No, he couldn't possibly fall for something so cheap, so ridiculous. But what was there to lose? If she didn't manage it, Beckett would most probably just sneer at her, and then go back to thinking. But if she did—by some fluke—manage to use it to her advantage... she could gain his gun... it was these thoughts that spurred her on.

"What?" He asked her, a touch distrustingly, probably at the use of his first name more then anything. His gaze settled on her, and Elizabeth felt like she was in a spotlight, on a stage, struggling to remember her lines.

"You know... that I..." Elizabeth struggled with her words desperately; they did not come out smooth and silky as she planned, but broken, quiet, barely a whisper. Their shackled hands were next to each other on the bench they were sitting on—she moved her hand to brush his. He moved his hand away from hers, as if her touch was infectious.

"I know that you what? Secretly love me?" Beckett asked derisively, his eyes narrowed, and Elizabeth felt a hot blush creeping through her—more at the discovery of her plan then anything else—and Beckett stared at her, alarmed. "Oh," he said, his voice strange. He cleared his throat and his eyes glanced away from her for a moment, as if he wasn't sure if she was being serious or not; his eyes were still narrowed, however. He didn't trust her. His question hung unanswered in the air.

She realized that he hadn't discovered her plan after all. In fact, he was sort of falling for it. He was actually falling for it! The fact that he believed her was a touch disturbing, but still; it would all be over soon.

Again, she moved her hand towards his, curling her fingers lightly around his wrist; and this time, he didn't move away from her—he looked towards her, his eyes calculating, as if searching through her. He wasn't convinced; but he was interested enough to not try to stop her. He seemed questioning. Brilliant—oh yes, this was brilliant! He was falling for it! What a prat! She moved closer to him, her other hand moving up to his opposite shoulder, their faces only a few inches apart. Her free hand began travelling down his arm, towards where his hand rested, next to his waist; next to his gun.

Any moment now, and she could grab the gun. Beckett suddenly blinked, and seemed to want to pull away from her, but she held him steady with one hand on his uninjured shoulder, and he made do with simply looking at her, a frown on his face; Elizabeth, somehow, felt undeniably fascinated. She wanted to know what happened when Beckett let his guard down... but wait too long, and this could end up going in a really bad direction. She had to remember Will.

Finally, her trailing fingers reached his other hand—acting fast, she seized his gun with her free hand, using her shackled hand to yank him to his feet, spin him around and pin him to the wall, his shackled arm pulled behind his back, and her free hand jabbing the gun into his side. Beckett rested his forehead against the wall in front of him, exhaling loudly.

"Oh, very good, Elizabeth," he muttered. He kept his face away from her, as it was beginning to flush—part with anger, but mostly out of embarrassment for falling for such a blatant trick.

"I can't believe you fell for it, you complete divot!" Elizabeth said in a sneering tone, "Now get me out of these shackles. I know you have the keys on you somewhere." Beckett seemed unmoved by the gun in his side. Elizabeth prodded him with it for effect.

"Would you kindly allow me to remove my face from the wall?" He asked, finally turning his head slightly, so that his cheek was against the damp stone instead. Elizabeth warily stepped back—though she was ready for any tricks.

"Don't try anything. Now hand over the keys," she snarled.

"Huh. And what if I don't want to? You being my ticket out of here and all," Beckett smiled. Elizabeth stared at him, as if he were stupid.

"I have your gun!" Elizabeth waved it for emphasis.

"I know you do," Beckett raised an eyebrow. "So shoot me." Elizabeth stared at him for a moment, before beginning to nod her head, her nods getting more confident every second. He was _goading_ her! Did he believe that she really wouldn't kill him?

"Fine... fine! Alright, then," Elizabeth pointed the gun at his chest.

"This time, try not to hit my shoulder," Beckett yawned. Elizabeth glowered at him—trying to figure out what Beckett was up to. He was acting confident, he was practically telling her to shoot him. This wasn't normal.

"What're you up to?" She demanded, " Hand me the keys! Where are they?"

"Search me," Beckett smirked, his eyes not even looking at the gun. Elizabeth growled, but did not make to move. She looked at the gun uncertainly. Beckett cocked his head, wondering is she would actually pull the trigger—it didn't matter, as the gun was broken, but the thought would have been rather disheartening. He was over the little embarrassment with Elizabeth's trick now; though the sickening churn of humiliation was still deep in his stomach.

He'd been mildly amused—simply interested—to see what would happen. It had been nothing more then a remarkable development that Elizabeth had 'secretly loved him'. He'd believed her, sort of, yes; but her acting had been rather good. That was all. He' just been... he'd just been mildly interested in the outcome of this. Wondering if it would work to his advantage. _That was all._ But how could he convince her of that now? She must think him an idiot. Much like that time around the campfire on their island; but she could blame that on pregnancy. He could hardly take _that_ option.

He didn't understand that her acting hadn't been intentional.

Elizabeth had been meaning to be much more slick then that; sort of smooth and seductive, that kind of thing. But it had just been so embarrassing that she'd found herself stuttering and going red... which actually added realism to her act. It's a funny old world.

"Are you going to shoot me now, or in a few days time?" Beckett said, boredly. Elizabeth glared at him.

They suddenly heard the clang of a door, and footsteps coming down creaky stairs, towards their cell. Elizabeth stared at Beckett for a minute, glanced around herself for somewhere to hide her gun, and suddenly felt it being plucked from her fingers. Immediately, she grasped it, scowling at Beckett.

"The gun doesn't work, you plank!" Beckett hissed. Elizabeth stared at him disbelievingly. Beckett rolled his eyes and pulled the trigger; there was a thunk, but nothing more. Elizabeth stared at him.

"I can't believe you!" She snapped.

"Sometimes, having a broken gun on you can be more useful then a working one," Beckett smirked, taking the gun and sticking it in his belt. The barred cell doors opened—and in stepped Lord Leonard himself.

"Good evening," he said, narrowing his eyes at Beckett.

* * *

**NB:** The Beckabeth--it burns! Heh, heh. Though I know that _some_ of my readers support it very much indeed... (coughTavycough!) Some good old English insults thrown in there too... you Americans don't know what you're missing. :P Hmm, so, did Beckett really feel bad about this? He is actually ready to hand her in, after all--is there time for a recoup, perhaps, and still save Elizabeth? What will our dear Lord Leonard make of it all? What will happen to Audrey and Will? Am I seriously abusing the question mark right now or what? 

Extract from next chapter: _"Trustworthiness—oh, you're one to talk about trustworthy, you lying, cheating_ pig_," Elizabeth snarled. Beckett rolled his eyes. What had to be done, had to be done..._

See you next update!


	17. Beseeching

SEVENTEEN: Beseeching

Lord Leonard glared at the man who he had hated ever since their very first meeting. Beckett turned to him and gave a slight, mocking bow—the woman he was shackled to simply wrinkled her brow in a frown, seeming a touch flustered. Lord Leonard did not return the bow, and Beckett did not return the greeting.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?" Lord Leonard sneered, looking down at Beckett. "My, don't we look a state?" Beckett looked around himself.

"I daresay _we_ do, yes," Beckett replied, arching an eyebrow. Lord Leonard wasn't fazed—though he felt a familiar annoyance beginning to rise up. No matter how bedraggled he looked, Beckett was still... well, Beckett; able to irritate and belittle any man with a single word. Ugh.

"Everyone thought you were dead," Lord Leonard frowned, "Sadly, the truth was much worse—you're a pirate."

"Oh, give it a rest, will you?" Beckett rolled his eyes, his hand waving the air, making the shackle chains clink against each other, "We both know that I'm not a pirate, you're just determined to catch me—feeling insecure about your position, I assume."

"What do you want here, Beckett? Why did you hand yourself in?" Lord Leonard folded his arms, standing in the doorway. Beckett and Elizabeth could both see guards behind him—and a couple had pushed past and were standing to attention in two corners of the cell, their faces devoid of expression.

"I have here a certain ex-Pirate King," Beckett raised his arm, pulling the shackles taut, and making Elizabeth's arm fly upwards too, "She also happens to be the one that sent that little letter of accusation," he glared at Elizabeth, who glared back just as bitterly. "It was her word that began the whispers of conspiracy—and as she is a pirate, her words cannot be trusted. I am handing her over to the navy and the East India Trading Company to prove my loyalty," he had explained all of this so far with patience and a calm demeanour, but now his voice seemed to strain slightly, "So I would be very much inclined if you were to take down the posters of me that you seem intent to plaster the country with."

"Cutler Beckett," Lord Leonard sneered, "I never thought I would say this—but you are naive, thinking that this will prove your loyalty." Beckett's mouth dropped open.

"_Naive_? Lord Leonard, I think that this arrest proves where my loyalties lie. This is an ex-Pirate _King_. With information in her head that could help wipe out piracy all together," Beckett frowned, "Any normal court would accept that. But you," Beckett smirked, "You never did forgive me for beating you at chess so easily, did you?"

"This has nothing to do with chess," Lord Leonard fumed, "And in any case, that was a fluke, and I know that you couldn't do it again."

"How much would you bet on that?" Beckett muttered, but merited no response.

"You have no idea how much I have dreamed of seeing you like this, Beckett," Lord Leonard smirked, "Bedraggled, dirty, wounded, unshaven and penniless. A loser in life."

"You've had _dreams_ of seeing me like this?" Beckett asked, baffled.

"You always did take things a little bit too literally, Beckett," Lord Leonard sighed.

"Well, it's a little unnerving," Beckett wrinkled his nose. Lord Leonard glared at him for a long moment, and then smoothed over the conversation.

"In arresting you, I am simply doing my civic duty—and now, in the place of one wanted criminal, I have gained two. Brilliant. Now I can watch you both hang in perfect unison; wont that be a day to remember?" Lord Leonard, unlike Beckett, had many of his emotions show through; and right now, a proud triumph and childish glee were easily fathomable.

"Lord Leonard, there is no solid proof whatsoever that I am a pirate! Or have in any way been aiding them," a small scowl came to Beckett's face, "In fact, I am handing one in. This leads me to believe that you want me hung just to keep your position. Oh," Beckett sighed melodramatically, "The trustworthiness of the East India Trading Company has already fallen apart without me, I see." Lord Leonard opened his mouth to say something, but Elizabeth got there first.

"Trustworthiness—oh, you're one to talk about _trustworthy_, you lying, cheating _pig_," She snarled. Beckett rolled his eyes. What had to be done, had to be done.

"Oh, be quiet, you," he muttered, "It seems what we have here is a complete and utter lunatic."

"Lunatic? Oh no, Beckett, you are quite mistaken—the madman here is _you_. Everyone knows it," Lord Leonard sneered, "So why would they take your word over mine? A respected lord?"

"Because I am obviously sane," he said, and then shot an annoyed look to Elizabeth, who gave a derisive cough, "Though you managed to bribe enough doctors to sign that I was insane. Using my money, perhaps? Another reason to want me dead," Beckett pursed his lips.

"Your money is untouched, at the moment," Lord Leonard scowled, as he'd been looking forwards to all of that extra dosh for 'the company', "But seeing as your mother is now gone, and you are now a wanted criminal, a lot of it will be flowing in my direction." Beckett glared at him—his own money funding the one that wanted to destroy him.

"Ironic," Beckett simply said, scornfully.

"Isn't it just," Lord Leonard sneered, "So the bottom line is—you just handed yourself in to a pretty-much definite demise, and your delightful little buddy will hang for the nefarious crimes that you have both committed, with no proof that this is, indeed, defamation; after all, who are they going to believe?" Lord Leonard smirked, and pointed to himself, walking forwards into the room so that he was directly in front of Beckett.

"I see someone got a thesaurus for Christmas," Beckett muttered. Elizabeth couldn't help a small laugh.

"You may think it's funny," Lord Leonard said, trying to seem indifferent, though his anger was showing through with his jumping cheek muscle and the fact that his face was flushing slightly, "But not when you are both dead."

"Oh dear," Beckett said dryly, "The East India Trading Company has become utterly corrupt. Woe is me. Who would have guessed that such an improbable thing would ever occur?" He rolled his eyes, "I suppose, then, that I have no choice." He looked over to Elizabeth, and she looked over to him. She noticed him giving her the most quick and fleeting of smiles. She was a little annoyed by his sudden change in allegiances, but she supposed she had no option but to go along with him.

Suddenly, he had whipped his arm upwards—with Elizabeth's following it's lead—and then thrust forwards, so that the chain of their shackles went over Leonard's heads, and behind. Then, with a deft flick, Beckett yanked his arm back; and with the back of his neck caught in the chain, Lord Leonard was sent shooting forwards into the wall behind them, stumbling between Beckett and Elizabeth.

After this, the strangest of... _battles_ occurred.

* * *

**NB:** No good can come from this... next chapter is more humurous, I promise--though there are also some serious implications; just not what you may think...

I'll do another extract from the next chapter: _Beckett looked worse for wear. His face was white, and his expression could only be described as appalled. He cleared his throat, making that strange, choking sound again._


	18. Swallow

EIGHTEEN: Swallow

Beckett and Elizabeth both had to 'spring into action' as it were, in a cramped cell with redcoats, no weapons, and whilst chained to each other. Beckett grabbed Elizabeth by her shackled wrist—with his shackled hand—and pulled her out of the way of a soldier lunging towards them with a bayonet from the corner; the soldier stumbled past them, and Beckett whipped the chain (now a loose fold, as he was holding Elizabeth's wrist) into his face, and made a grab for the bayonet.

As his fingers brushed it, Elizabeth yanked him towards the door—which, unfortunately pulled him backwards—and kicked a soldier in the chest, before using the chain to try and strangle another one. Beckett pulled his gun out of his belt, and pointed it towards Lord Leonard, who had just managed to clamber to his feet.

"I'll shoot," Beckett said loudly, while thinking about how to resolve this without actually letting the fact that his gun was broken show through. The soldiers all stopped for a moment, looking sort of tentatively at Lord Leonard.

There was a pregnant pause.

A soldier went for Beckett from behind with the butt of the bayonet—as Lord Leonard didn't want Beckett killed unless absolutely necessary. Beckett ducked to the side, though he knocked Elizabeth, and then the butt came into contact with the elbow holding the gun, and his pistol shot out of his grasp and across the room, pinning Lord Leonard in the nose, breaking it, and making him collapse to the floor. _That's one way to do it, I suppose,_ Beckett thought, amazed.

Then the real fighting started. Elizabeth had turned around and yanked the bayonet out of the soldier's hands—seeing as he was holding the butt-end first, it was a simple matter to pull it backwards and then push it forwards to run him through. Once she had the bayonet, Beckett pulled her to the left to grab the bayonet he'd been meaning to grab earlier on.

_This would be easier if Elizabeth and me weren't joined together,_ Beckett thought. He dug a hand into a pocket, and then realized it was in the other one. He moved his bayonet to his right hand, and then a soldier came for him and he had to quickly switch it to his left hand again—his left hand was his stronger one.

"Elizabeth, watch my back, will you?" He asked her.

"Oh, what, like you watch mine?" Elizabeth demanded.

"If I die, it'll be a whole lot harder for you to escape, that much I know," Beckett replied, and then slashed the bayonet in front of him before moving it to his right hand and putting his left hand into the pocket with the keys inside. He yanked them out—they were only small, perhaps an inch and a half long, and very thin too—and smiled to himself. Then he quickly had to fight again, so moved them to _another_ pocket and threw the bayonet into his other hand. This was getting confusing. Finally, there were no soldiers left in the cell—though there were more outside—so he could pull the key out with his left hand. He made to shove them in the lock, when Elizabeth suddenly yanked him to the left, and they were running out of the cell.

They'd managed to mow down about five guards so far, and there were a couple more outside the cell. As they advanced, Beckett could find no other place to hold the keys apart from—after an eye roll and a mutter about how uncivilized this was—between his teeth, and moved his bayonet back to his left hand, ready to fight.

Outside of the their cell, there was a narrow, stone corridor, at one end there was a wooden staircase that went up to a door that was slightly ajar. Once they'd broken out of that, they'd have to escape from the naval base—one of many in Port Royale—and then lose everyone once more in the streets of the city.

Beckett and Elizabeth both began to fight; Elizabeth wasn't too experienced with a bayonet, but she reasoned that it was like a sword—the principles were the same, anyhow. Beckett was also battling it out, though he seemed a touch half-hearted about it. His entire plan had just collapsed. Elizabeth looked away from him to run another soldier through—though she felt like apologizing afterwards—and suddenly heard Beckett give a strangled cry.

She spun her head to look at him, and found him slashing a soldier across the chest with a bayonet, though Beckett looked worse for wear. His face was white, and his expression could only be described as appalled. He cleared his throat, making that strange, choking sound again.

"Bollocks," he croaked.

"Are you alright?" Elizabeth asked, frowning.

"Fine... I'm fine," Beckett's voice was still harsh, but Elizabeth knew that there was no time for a medical check-up right now, so she dashed forwards, and she and Beckett managed to finish off the last guards.

"Too easy, eh?" Elizabeth asked with a half-smile.

"Yes, quite. Let's get out of here," Beckett started up the stairs, dragging Elizabeth behind him. He heard Lord Leonard shouting orders below—he had obviously just woken up from his little ordeal. They charged through the door, and then ran from the naval base as fast as their legs could carry them, knocking off-duty men and various papers for six.

----------

Lord Leonard had given his orders. And they were a much sneakier plan of attack then Beckett had suspected.

"Send out the dragoons," he muttered, rubbing his tender face dourly, "Follow the two of them to wherever they're going. Capture them all in one go. Let them think they've gotten away, get them when they suspect it less." So the four dragoons all leapt onto their horses and cantered onto the streets—foot soldiers were keeping an eye on which direction Beckett and Elizabeth left Port Royale from, and the dragoons were taking care of it from there.

Tracking and chasing, they felt, was somewhat below them—but now that the news of Cutler Beckett and his scandal was so renowned, famous in it's own shameful way, they were feeling like they were doing something of utmost importance.

After the news came back that they had left through the eastern side of Port Royale, they kicked their horses into gallop and—with the red tails of their jackets flapping behind them—took off into the spring sunshine, ready for a good old-fashioned stalk-and-hunt.

----------

"It looks like we got away with that one," Elizabeth said finally, as they tramped through the countryside. The sun shone down on them, and all around them was grass. They could still see Port Royale behind them—in the distance.

"Mmhm," Beckett shook his head. He'd been strangely monosyllabic since they'd left Port Royale. "That plan backfired slightly," he admitted.

"Backfired _slightly_? Yes, I suppose it did, in the way that I am _slightly_ annoyed with you right now, and Jack Sparrow is _slightly_ alcoholic..." Elizabeth rolled her eyes, "That plan was a complete and utter mess."

"It's not _my_ fault. How was I supposed to know that some sadistic nutter with a giant grudge would be the one in charge of this operation?" Beckett waved an arm, the shackles tinkling, "This sort of thing is just not meant to happen to people like... people like _me_!" Elizabeth rolled her eyes, as something that now almost resembled a catchphrase found its way out of Beckett's mouth. Then, the sound of the shackles reminded her of something.

"Beckett. You can take the shackles off now," she said, turning to him. Beckett coughed, looking a touch uncomfortable.

"Oh, yes," he said, "Uhm—Elizabeth, what would you do if I said that I... lost the key?"

"I would say that you were a tit and slap you upside the head," Elizabeth said flatly.

"I lost the key."

"You tit!" Elizabeth said, slapping him upside the head.

"Look, it was... a completely uncontrollable, unlikely and unfortunate series of occurrences that had nothing at all to do with me, and were not my fault whatsoever, _really_," Beckett said, as Elizabeth fumed at him.

"Oh, you are beginning to sound like Jack Sparrow, now," Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Beckett visibly flushed.

"Don't you even _compare_ me to the most moronic, rum-swilling, ear-picking, undignified male-prostitute of a cretin to ever set foot in Jamaica," Beckett seethed. His poison surprised Elizabeth. His voice lowered to indecipherable mutters, and Elizabeth cut him off.

"You really don't like him, do you?" She asked. She knew that she was supposed to be immensely angry with Beckett right now, but she couldn't help but be interested.

"No, and with good reason," Beckett muttered. Elizabeth was curious—but decided not to ask any more.

"Anyway—you say you've lost the key?" Elizabeth smirked at him, "With the way things were going down the cell, I'm beginning to doubt it was an accident."

"Huh... I was just amused. Interested to see if what you said was true or not... I was pretty certain that you were trying to charm your way out of the cell; but taking my gun? That was just low," Beckett sneered back at her, "No doubt the only way you could find to get out of the situation."

"It worked, didn't it?" Elizabeth rolled her eyes; "I found it slightly unsettling that you actually believed me, though."

"I didn't-," Beckett began to protest.

"Anyway, how did you lose the key? Where? In the cell, on the way here, back at the barn—or is it somewhere on you?" Elizabeth asked him.

"No... not... eh... not _on _me, as such..."

* * *

**NB:** Huh! I wonder where the key could be?

Extract from the next chapter:_ "Beckett, me and William are out," Elizabeth said flatly, "Nothing you say will change that. How can I ever trust you now?"_


	19. Contraries

NINETEEN: Contraries

Lord Leonard looked down at the small pistol that had hit him in the face with such force that it had broken his nose. He was not very happy about that. He had decided to keep it—just for jollies. Just for the irony.

Beckett would hang, of course, for that was the worst death possibly. However, Lord Leonard wished greatly that Beckett was going to die by his hand—now it was personal, after all. Perhaps if Beckett annoyed him enough, he would gun him down. Nobody would miss him. He smiled to himself as he opened the drawer of his desk and dropped the what he thought was a perfectly-working gun inside with a clatter.

_Sometimes, having a broken gun on you can be more useful then a working one..._

----------

It was nearing the evening, and the dragoons had been shadowing Elizabeth and Beckett for a long time now. They rode in silence, far away from them—split into two, with two horses on each side of them, the men keeping a sharp eye on the two figures that cut through the grass. The wind whistled, and miles and miles of grass waved softly around them, whispering harshly. The sun was still beating down, seemingly unaware that it was only spring.

The men continued in silence.

----------

"You swallowed it."

"Yes."

"You... _swallowed_ it?" Elizabeth blinked, and shook her head, "How... _how_? How does someone swallow the key to a pair of shackles that they are stuck in? I don't understand _how_ someone could be as impossibly stupid as to _do_ that!"

"Well, you see," Beckett explained, "When we were fighting those guards in the cell, with the bayonets, I decided it would be easier to fight if we had our hands free... right?" Elizabeth nodded; his story seemed sane so far. "So anyway, after my pistol ended up hitting Leonard in the face, I put my bayonet in my right hand, and got the keys out with my left hand, and then the soldier came from the front, and so I had to move them, so I put the keys back in my _other_ pocket and moved the bayonet to my _left_ hand..."

"You're already losing me," Elizabeth said, looking a little confused, "So you're left-handed?"

"I'm ambidextrous," Beckett preened slightly, "But my left hand is stronger, yes. Anyway," he continued with his story, "So after we—no, it was just before we left the cell, I tried again to unlock the shackles, but a soldier had half-circled around to my left side, and my right hand was being jerked away by you, so I had no choice but to hold the key in my teeth, and-,"

"Beckett!" Elizabeth stared at him for a moment, "How... how could someone so clever be so _stupid_?!" She shook her head at him in complete bafflement, as Beckett paused, as if wondering whether this was a compliment or an insult.

"It was a perfectly logical thing to do," he said coolly, "At the time. I didn't know that some soldier would insist in elbowing me in the chin at the worst possible time."

"Oh, god," Elizabeth looked down at the shackles, "Beckett! What if you've just shackled me to you _forever_?"

"Don't be so melodramatic," Beckett waved his free arm dismissively, "The keys to every pair of shackles in Port Royale are the same design." Elizabeth suddenly stopped walking, which made Beckett jerk backwards as he continued onwards.

"Let's go back, then," she said, "We have to go and get a key."

"We'll be able to get it off back at the barn!" Beckett rolled his eyes, "How hard could it be?"

----------

"Beckett, look," Elizabeth sighed. It was about an hour later, and conversation had petered out. "I am still really angry at you. Less angry then I was this morning, but still _so _angry..." She looked at him, that glower still in her eyes. "I can't trust you."

"Elizabeth, I wasn't going to let you die, I-,"

"Face it Beckett—what reason have you ever given me to trust you, eh? None. At all. In fact, you have given me reason to do the exact opposite," she glared at him, "You're a selfish man, and I'm not staying with you any more."

"But-,"

"No, Beckett, I'm being serious—you and your mother are on your own now. I'm going. I am taking William, and I am _leaving_. I'm sure that descriptions of me will be circulating the area by tomorrow. I'm not helping you any more, Beckett; you've brought nothing but trouble." Elizabeth shook her head disappointedly.

"But Elizabeth-,"

"I was only tagging along with you because I felt bad about what happened. But now that I know that you would hand me over to the other side for your own freedom, I just... ugh, I can't believe you!" The more she thought about it, the more worked up she became. She glared heatedly at Beckett. "So that's it. Me and William are out of this deal. We are leaving." Beckett could do nothing but look at her for a moment.

"It's actually 'William and I'," was all he managed, in a rather strained voice.

"Beckett... you... you are just so infuriating," Elizabeth finished rather helplessly, her anger deflating at his idiocy. He was both the most intelligent man she had ever met, and the biggest moron she had ever had the displeasure to talk to. The most cold-hearted and callous man to ever have crossed her path, and at the same time, the man who she had trusted with her baby and her life frequent times. A man who she had hated like no other—but at times, she had seen him as her... her best friend.

He had the most annoying sneer she had ever set eyes on, a drawl of a voice that she would want nothing more then to be able to blot out at will, and an ego that could easily eclipse the earth. But sometimes, she felt—though she knew that it was hopelessly naive—that there was perhaps more to him then that. Perhaps she had been reading too many clichéd romance novels, but... she just felt that way.

But what did she know? If he was enough of a backstabbing, manipulating ass to simply hand her—his 'friend'—to the redcoats, then obviously he did have more to him—more selfishness and control-freakishness then she had first thought! She sighed and pushed her hair out of her eyes; it had come out of its bun, and was now down, blonde and brown wavy strands falling around her face. She needed a cut.

"I don't mean to be," Beckett said thoughtfully, "I just try to be well-mannered, but everyone takes everything I say the wrong way. It's only polite to correct erroneous use of the English language..."

"I wasn't talking about that, but never mind," Elizabeth sighed, "When we get back to the barn, we are getting these shackles off, and then I am going."

"But Elizabeth," Beckett whined, "You did this to me in the first place!"

"Oh, stop acting like a child," Elizabeth snapped, they had just clambered up to the top of the hillside now, and had about an hour of walking left, "I put a tiny sliver of trust in your hands, and you abused it! What sort of a 'friend' are you?"

"I'm not a friend, apparently. Weren't you the one shouting about how much you hated me as I rowed away from your island?" Beckett yawned.

"You said you hated me too," Elizabeth said sourly, the memory unsettling her.

"Well... you said it first, I was merely following along so I could get off of the island," Beckett looked slyly at her, sidelong. Elizabeth sighed, rubbing her shackled arm with her free one—all of the fighting and pulling had left red marks along her wrists, and doubtlessly Beckett's as well.

"Beckett, me and William are out," she replied flatly, "Nothing you say will change that. How can I ever trust you now?"

But there comes a time when everyone must do something they have sworn against. It's just one of those things. The time was coming ever closer for Elizabeth, as the dragoons continued riding through the countryside, following them every step of the way.

----------

Beckett slammed into the barn that evening, not in the sweetest of moods. Not only was he chained to Elizabeth, but she also continued to irritate and mock him, especially for him 'falling for' her little trick in the dungeon. He wished that she would just shut up about that already.

"Cutler?" Audrey hovered to the side as he and Elizabeth walked in from outside, he dragging her towards the back of the barn. She wasn't sure what to make of it. He'd been gone a long time, and she'd been worried—but now he was back, and with Elizabeth. Perhaps he had, for once in his life, made a moral decision and decided that what he was doing was wrong, and that he had to be a good person and allow Elizabeth to stay free?

"Bloody Leonard wouldn't listen to me! Would you believe that?" Beckett asked, grumpily. Audrey sighed. Perhaps not. "Now, come and help me find that hammer I found here—if I can't use it to break the lock on these shackles, I can at least use it to break Elizabeth's skull..."

* * *

**NB:** Ah, yes, the valuable life lesson of carrying things in your mouth! No poopie jokes, please, it's a sensitive area... and we will certainly not be headed _that_ way, thank you very much. There is something un-Beckett-like about key-swallowing, but his explanation says it all, really. Trouble!

Extract from the next chapter:_ "Ooh, how hard could it be?" Elizabeth said, in a whiny impression of Beckett's accent, "Well, now we bloody well know, don't we?!"_


	20. Incursion

TWENTY: Incursion

"Ooh, how hard could it be?" Elizabeth said, in a whiny impression of Beckett's accent, "Well, now we bloody well know, don't we?!"

"Oh, come on, how was I supposed to know that these cheap little shackles that look like they were manufactured by a toy-maker are _indestructible_?" Beckett looked down at the beaten-up, but still very-much functioning pair of shackles that he and Elizabeth had spent the best part of an hour attempting to remove.

First, they had found the hammer and began, well, hammering—which was generally known to be what hammers did best—but they only succeeded in throwing up a lot of sparks, and having to put out several small fires. It was a barn, after all, full of hay; incredibly, extremely, dangerously flammable (_three_ adjectives? Must have something to do with the plot!). They'd decided to give the hammering a rest for a bit, and Beckett and Elizabeth had both taken turns to try and pick the locks.

"Since when do you have experience at picking locks with hairpins?" Elizabeth had asked him with a scowl, as he commandeered the task. "Let me do it!"

"A hairpin can be very useful," Beckett had said mildly, and extremely cryptically, fiddling around with the lock. Elizabeth opened her mouth, and then closed it again, a small frown wrinkling her brow.

"Cutler," Audrey said now, slowly, looking at both him and Elizabeth, "I have-"

"Mother, this is meant in the politest way possible, but any idea that comes out of your mouth tends to be pure, unadulterated rubbish, so if your next sentence contains the words 'maybe', 'I think' or 'shoes', then it would be better to just not say anything, and save me the time of having to come up with something to put across the stupidity of your idea. Yes?" Beckett looked to his mother, "I'm sorry, mother, but we don't have time for foolishness right now." _Though the longer we're chained together, the longer Elizabeth will stay,_ he thought slyly, _and the longer I have to convince her to stay..._

He needed an ally, that was all. An ally. A strategic collaborator.

"Alright," Audrey said uncertainly, and then toddled off to do something or other. Beckett didn't really pay attention.

"Let's try oiling up our hands," Elizabeth said, "Then we can try to slip out of the cuffs," she looked towards Beckett, who nodded.

"I'd actually already thought of that, but the rings are so small I doubt you'd get your knuckles through them," Beckett said, wandering across the barn and dragging Elizabeth along behind him. She hated it when he did that, but she had to follow anyway, as he reached into a sack and brought out some oil—they'd brought it for the oil lamp they had in the barn. "Here you go then," he said, handing the bottle to her.

"Alright, I—hey," Elizabeth frowned at him as she opened the bottle top, and the greasy substance glistened inside the bottle, looking rather repulsive. "Why do _I_ have to do it? Why not you?"

"Your hands are smaller," Beckett said indifferently, "So if any of our hands will slip through, it'll be yours." Elizabeth tipped some of the oil onto her hand, and rubbed it with her other hand, detesting the slightly sticky feel of it on her arm.

"This is a bad idea," Elizabeth muttered with a shudder.

"Oh, well, if you'd prefer being shackled to me for the rest of ever, then I guess that's fine too," Beckett said with an exaggerated shrug. Elizabeth sighed, as she thought about the embarrassing moments—yes, I'm not going to just not mention them and pretend they never happened—that had been necessary, as she was chained to him. There was the obvious toileting needs; there had been a few arguments over that; but they'd gotten over it, found ways around it. There had also been Elizabeth's feeding of William, in which Beckett had sat next to her, looking at everything that was not in her general direction. She'd thought it was rather amusing, actually.

"Right, I get it," Elizabeth sighed, beginning to pull against the shackles. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get her hand out. Her wrist widened out into her hand, and the way her thumb protruded to the side—as thumbs do—just wouldn't allow it. She tried tucking her thumb into her palm (are you looking at your hand now...?) but the shape remained at the base (...I certainly am).

She struggled for a while, even asking Beckett for help to slip it off. She would fold her hand up as much as possible, and begin yanking on the shackle ring; Beckett would fold her thumb down as much as he could with one hand, and help pull the shackle with the other. At times, it seemed _so very close_... but then with a clatter, the shackles would slide back do her wrist, and refuse to budge past her hand. After a while of both of them wrestling with the shackles, they gave up.

"It's not going to move," Elizabeth moaned.

"I'm tired. Can we fix it in the morning?" Beckett asked, rubbing an eye—night had fallen a while ago. The lantern was their only light, apart from the patchy moonlight that flickered through the clouds and the holes in the thatched roof; this place was in need of repair, much like the other barn they had stayed in.

"I'm not sleeping with you!" Elizabeth fumed. Beckett looked on in bafflement as Audrey Beckett, sitting at the other side of the barn with William, looked up, a look of utter alarm on her face. Elizabeth felt herself getting a tad hot around the collar. Why did everything she said come out wrong, these days?

"There are so many things I could say in reply to that... but I am going to let it slide, because I am such a good person," Beckett said, smirking.

"Cutler?" Audrey called uncertainly.

"Ignore everything Elizabeth says, mother—she's just being stupid," he called back, standing up and stretching, "And I'm going to go to sleep now... whether Elizabeth likes it or not." He dragged Elizabeth to her feet, and began walking towards a nice-looking bale of hay, near the back of the barn, hidden behind a pile of them.

Elizabeth decided that it would be better to not say anything, as Audrey walked up to them, William in her arms. She laid the baby down a few feet away from where Elizabeth and Beckett were sitting, and then sat down herself, looking concerned.

"Have you been without a chaperone for all of the time before you rescued me?" Audrey asked.

"We had Junior over there, mother," Beckett yawned and fell back onto the hay, "Now shut up and go to sleep."

"Shouldn't we put out the lantern?"

"No."

----------

At that very moment in time, three of the dragoons were back at Port Royale, telling Lord Leonard the exact position of the barn in which the three fugitives were hidden. They'd left one of their number behind to keep an eye on them, and make sure they didn't leave, though it seemed unlikely—night had fallen fast, and the air was frigid outside, despite how warm the day had been.

"Excellent. Come midnight, you lot can go in, raid the place, bring back the three outlaws; done and done," Lord Leonard smiled. "If they wont cooperate, burn the place to the ground."

Midnight was coming up. The three dragoons galloped through the night, their coattails flapping behind them, their horses' hooves thudding gently in the grass, no other sound marking their presence as they streaked through the countryside, one of them with a match and a torch.

----------

"Elizabeth, will you stop _moving_?" Beckett demanded, pulling on the chain. Elizabeth flopped onto her back with a scowl on her face.

"Just because _you_ possess the ability to lie as still as a statue for hours at a time doesn't mean everyone does!" She replied hotly. Beckett made to fold his arms, but stopped when the shackles pulled taut.

"It's not an ability—it's an easily accomplished task!" Beckett rolled his eyes.

"I can't wait to get free of you," Elizabeth muttered mutinously into the darkness, "Me and William are out of here. You hear me? You and your mother are on your own after this."

"I do hear you," Beckett murmured, "I wish there was some way to prove that I'm on your side..."

"Not handing me over to the redcoats who want to hang me would be nice!" Elizabeth spat.

"Look, I already told you that I wasn't going to let you hang—once I had my position back, I was going to have you kept alive so that you could be questioned about the whereabouts of some other pirate lords. And once the whole scandal had died down enough, you were going to... 'escape', be reunited with William, that sort of thing," Beckett sighed.

"As if!" Elizabeth snorted, "You were just going to stand by, watching me swing..."

"Elizabeth," Beckett said, a tad cautiously, "I wouldn't want you to die—I still don't want you to die."

"Huh—only because you have nobody else to run to," Elizabeth glared at him through the darkness, "You don't see me as a friend... I'm your last resort."

"You were my first choice!"

"They're the same thing—you don't have any friends!" Elizabeth rolled her eyes, "If you weren't such a pissant bastard, then perhaps more people would be willing to help you... as it is, nobody likes you."

"People do like me," Beckett said, frowning slightly.

"Oh, yes?"

"_Somebody_ must like me," Beckett muttered, "It's just not possible for someone to be disliked by _everyone_. And as if being 'liked' even matters any more."

"Your little Mister Mercer is dead," Elizabeth sneered, "And I don't think even he liked you that much."

"You must like me to some degree, to allow me to stick with you after the big disaster," Beckett said, sounding indifferent, though in truth he was stung. What was Elizabeth saying?

"I did like you, at some point—not much, though," she added quickly, "And I let you stay with me because of guilt more then anything else."

"Junior likes me," Beckett said, determinedly.

"I... no he doesn't," Elizabeth said hastily, though she knew that Junior certainly didn't _dis_like Beckett. Beckett frowned at her, and Elizabeth scowled back and made to roll over—however, she had forgotten about being chained to Beckett, and ended up sort of flipping him _over_ her, so he rolled onto the hay on the opposite side of her with a thud.

"Oh, very funny," Beckett snapped, sitting up and brushing endless amounts of scratchy hay from his hair and shirt. "You are so annoying..."

"Me? Annoying?!" Elizabeth fumed at him, and threw a handful of straw into his face, "_You_ are the one who's been annoying _me_ for the entire time I've known you!" Audrey had been woken up by the din, but was simply lying in the hay, too tired to move. "I hate you, you know that?!"

"Oh, there you go again with the hating," Beckett sighed.

"Shut up _right now_, Beckett, or I think I really will kill you," Elizabeth growled, pushing him over by his good shoulder—he fell back, nearly going over the edge of the bale of hay they were on top of, and falling down several feet to the stone floor. "I'll push you off!"

"My dear genius Elizabeth," Beckett said in an amused voice, "I hope I heard you wrongly, really I do. Do you think that pushing someone _who is shackled to you_ off of the edge of a bale of hay will solve all of your problems?"

"I'll _kill you_!" Elizabeth snarled, deciding that strangling would be the best option, when suddenly they heard the door crash open with a resounding smash that echoed through the barn.

"Come out, fugitives!" A voice bellowed, "The only exit is covered—get out now, and we wont have to hurt you!" Beckett and Elizabeth stared at each other in alarm, and then rushed over to douse the lantern, wondering what on earth to do. Audrey sat bolt upright, and they heard several pairs of feet storming into the barn.

And, against all of the odds, the usually contemplative and calm little William began a large and throaty cry.

* * *

**NB:** Uh-oh! Things are looking rather grim. Elizabeth and Beckett's banter has also reached a physically violent stage... oh, joy! Cheers to everyone who reviewed!

Extract from the next chapter:_ Beckett blinked, "I always knew that you were outrageously unintelligent, but this just takes the cake."_


	21. Blaze

TWENTY-ONE: Blaze

Elizabeth rushed over to her little baby, dragging Beckett behind her, and scooped him up, rocking and hushing him, pleading with him, wishing that he would be quiet. Beckett beckoned for his mother to quickly come over, and then turned his attention to William. Between him and Elizabeth, they managed to calm the wailing baby, but William did not seem amused, and looked like he may explode into another fit of crying at any minute.

"What're we going to do?" Elizabeth asked, clutching her baby to her, and her bag of belongings lying at her feet. Beckett raised a finger and closed his eyes, obviously thinking about it. "This would be so much easier if we weren't joined up!" Elizabeth sighed.

"Well," Audrey said slowly, crawling through the hay towards them, "I do have the spare keys that I stole from the guard on the day of the hanging..."

"The spare keys?" Elizabeth asked faintly. Beckett turned to stare at his mother in disbelief.

"There are spare keys? And... and you had them, and you didn't give them to us?" Beckett blinked, "I always knew that you were outrageously unintelligent, but this just takes the cake."

"When I tried to mention it, you told me to shut up," Audrey said, sounding offended. Beckett groaned—and then a second call came from the doorway. Also, Audrey had felt that it would be good for her son to be shackled to someone, and have some human company... though that hadn't worked out as expected. She'd kept a hold of the shiny keys on the day of the hanging; well, not all of them, but certainly the spare. Especially after her son decided to shackle Elizabeth up.

"We know you're in here; there's no point in hiding," the soldier bellowed, walking in further, "We're coming to the back now... you can't run, and you can't hide..." Beckett quickly held his hand out, and Audrey dropped the keys into his hand. With two clicks, he undid first Elizabeth's lock, and then his, before stuffing the keys into a pocket.

"Beckett! You're going to get us all arrested!" Elizabeth hissed, clutching William. "Killed, even!"

"Yes, we were followed... I didn't think of that possibility. I'm sorry," Beckett sighed and rubbed his forehead, "We have no choice—up. Into the hay at the back of the barn." They quietly ran to the very back of the barn, where there was a large stack of many bales of hay. However, whoever owned this farm obviously wasn't as organized as the other one, as they were stacked willy-nilly, not in neat piles.

"Are you sure about this?" Elizabeth asked, quietly, as she heard a horse snorting outside and more footsteps in the barn.

"There's no other option," Beckett helped his mother begin clambering up the hay, "Come on, we have to do this." After several seconds of furious scrabbling, they managed to reach the top. But Beckett had miscalculated the distance between the top of the hay-pile and the rafters. It was just too far up; they wouldn't be able to reach it. Beckett paused for a long moment.

When he turned to Elizabeth, he had an odd expression on his face. He took William from her hands, and made his mother hold the baby—and then he laced his fingers together and held them together like a stirrup, bending his knees slightly as if bracing himself.

"Beckett-?"

"Step onto my hands, and get up there," Beckett hissed, "I'll pass William and the sack up after. Mother, you're next," he nodded to Elizabeth. She looked uncertain for a moment, and he glared at her, "Hurry!" The urgency in his voice made her spring into action, and she stepped onto his hand. He straightened his knees and pushed her upwards—she grabbed a hold of the rafters, and eventually she swung up there. The sack and William were unceremoniously swung up to her soon after; the way William was passed up through mid-air making Elizabeth almost shriek. She looked around—the ceiling was made of many posts that ran dangerously from one side of the barn to the other, with some flat planks of wood like platforms, which had probably helped in the building of the roof. She stepped onto one now, putting the sack down on the wood and holding William close to her.

From up here, she could see around the maze of bales that was the barn; they were arranged like large shelves in the mother of all supermarkets, with small walkways in between them all to get around. The dragoons were at the front of the barn, coming closer every second.

"Cutler," Audrey said, "I don't think I'll be able to get up there. I'll fall. I don't like heights," her voice took on a fretting edge.

"It's that or death—up you go," Beckett said, not moving, his hands ready for her to step into. Audrey didn't look convinced, and Beckett sighed and gripped her shoulder tightly, "You can do it," he said, "You just have to-," before he could say anything moving and cheesy, a loud voice interrupted him.

"Stop right there! I see you, on top of that bale of hay! Get back down here!" The voice ordered gruffly. Audrey blinked, and Beckett spun around to see a man holding a flaming torch aloft, flanked by another man. "My friend here has a musket—he could pick you off right now f he wanted to." Beckett took a deep breath; and then exhaled loudly.

"Yes, sir," Beckett replied calmly, beginning to slide down the hay-pile; he kept a hand on his mother's shoulder, steadying her. The gesture surprised her. But not as much as the fact that he was admitting defeat.

Once they had reached the bottom of the bales of hay, Beckett showed his palms to the men, to show that he was unarmed. He looked towards his mother, and she did the same. The soldiers seemed surprised that he was giving in without a fight too—but not displeased. One of the dragoons walked forwards and grabbed Beckett by a shoulder, and began dragging him out of the barn. Beckett prised the man's fingers off of his painful shoulder.

"I can walk, thank you," he said acidly. The dragoon grunted, but did not grab his shoulder again.

"Where's the other one?" The dragoon asked him as they stumbled outside; it was considerably colder out here, the wind biting and chilling. Audrey coughed, the breath showing in the air in front of her, and clasped her fingers together—they were already beginning to feel numb.

"The other one?" Beckett asked. The dragoon snarled at him.

"Don't play innocent—the girl. The Pirate King," he growled. Beckett pursed his lips.

"She left. I did, after all, try to hand her in to the government. I don't know where she's gone," he said. Audrey nodded next to him, looking nervously at the muskets being hefted around.

"We've been watching the barn. Nobody's left the place," half of the dragoon's face was cast in shadow by the flaming torch he was holding—an abrupt picture of flickering shadows and harsh light. Beckett shrugged.

"Well, she certainly left," he said disinterestedly.

"In that case," the dragoon gave a grim smile; a cold one, devoid of emotion. Beckett frowned, thinking about how these dragoons seemed much more refined then the usual rabble. Obviously Lord Leonard had been very busy with the string-pulling. "You wouldn't mind me setting the barn alight?"

"Be my guest," Beckett said, giving nothing away, though his pulse quickened, "But you'll be the one footing the bill."

The dragoon looked at him for a heartbeat.

And then he threw the torch into the barn—the hay was alight in seconds.

* * *

**NB:** Why would Beckett help Elizabeth? He must have a plan--but what is it? And Audrey, as always, is a nice spanner in the works as well... also, in the next chapter, you shall find insanity! What fun it is...

Extract from the next chapter:_ Elizabeth realized that there was no way she was going to be getting out of that door—and that was the only door in the barn..._


	22. Hazardous

TWENTY-TWO: Hazardous

Elizabeth was shocked that Beckett had opted to help herself and his mother up into the rafters—because then, who would help _him_ get into the rafters? He must have had some sort of plan; but it still touched her somewhat. _Enough to make me go and 'rescue' him?_ She thought, chewing on a nail. _No, no, of course not. I mustn't risk it._ She looked at William.

"I mustn't risk it," she whispered to him, "I've got to keep you safe—isn't that right William?" He just looked back at her through those wise eyes of his. "That's funny... do you smell smoke?" She murmured to her son, wrinkling her nose.

----------

"You can't set the _barn_ on _fire_!" Beckett shouted, extremely loudly. "Setting _barns_ on _fire_ is illegal!" The dragoon was staring at him now as if he were completely crazy. Well, according to the newspapers he was, anyway. "It's arson, _setting barns on fire_!" The message—empathised words and all—would, hopefully, get to Elizabeth.

"There's someone in there, isn't there?" The dragoon asked, folding his arms.

"Well... Derek is," Beckett said dumbly. There was only one thing working for him at the moment; and that was his so-called insanity. As much as he loath to use it, he guessed it was the only way to disguise his attempt at a warning.

"Derek? Who's that?" The dragoon asked, leaning forwards.

"He's my pet frog," Beckett put a finger to his lips, talking in a conspiratorial whisper. The dragoon stared at him now, even taking a step back. Beckett suddenly feigned faltering, and shook his head, "Uh, s-sorry," he muttered, "It's complicated." Then he looked slyly at the dragoon, wondering if he would buy it.

"Right... fine," the dragoon waved an arm, "But I heard a sound in there... like a baby crying. What was that?" He narrowed his eyes.

"Oh, that was me," Beckett said, rather enjoying himself now. Being crazy wasn't that hard.

"That was... you," the dragoon raised an eyebrow.

"Yes... I tend to make noises when I get anxious... isn't that right, mother?" Beckett asked her, shooting her a meaningful look. Audrey looked caught for a moment, and then nodded quickly.

"Yes, he does... it's, uh... it's strange," she finally said. She wasn't lying in particular; Beckett _did_ make noises when he was anxious. They just usually tended to go more along the lines of, 'I need a break... this job is getting on top of me... Mister Mercer! Bring in some more tea!'

"Alright... well, if there _is_ anyone in there, they're bound to be burned to a crisp soon enough," the dragoon sneered, and Beckett tried not to let his concern show on his face, though he felt like shaking the man by the shoulders. _There's a baby in there! A baby! And a woman; who may or may not be my friend... but a woman nonetheless!_

As it were, he and Audrey were both brusquely bound in shackles and thrown over the back of two of the dragoons' horses. And then they were off, being galloped off into the night, the fire beginning to blaze and crackle behind them.

Beckett could only look over his shoulder with a slightly worried look on his face as the horses raced through the countryside, on their way back to Port Royale. Elizabeth was in there—and true, she was only a sort of 'friend'; but she was also the only one left who could possibly get him out of this mess.

Perhaps his last act of kindness would give her enough reason to come and help him out? If she survived, that is...

----------

Elizabeth coughed, clutching baby William to her chest, her bag fastened around her back, wondering how she would get out of this one. Smoke was billowing up thickly now, and seeing as she was in the rafters, they were coming closer to her. She had heard Beckett's loud warnings; but it hadn't been enough. She coughed and spluttered, and little William began to whimper again. She wrapped him up in her shirt, and then looked down—the fire was spreading quickly. She made to jump back down onto the pile of hay that she and Beckett had used to get up; when she noticed the door.

The entire front end of the barn was alight, burning and crackling, hay shrivelling and withering into nothing more then black, fine ash. She realized that there was no way she was going to be getting out of that door—and that was the only door in the barn.

She realized that she was in deep trouble.

There was nowhere to go—nowhere! Beckett had effectively trapped her in the rafters of a burning building... a burning building _full of hay_. That was not a good. Clutching William closer and trying not to gag, she made her way across the rafters until she got to a sort of flat support that she could stand on easily. Or not so easily—her head brushed the thatched roof above her.

She looked up, and saw stars; stars on black. It was the sky, the nighttime sky. The thatched roof was full of holes and in bad need of repair... and it was a way up. She looked down at the barn... the fire was spreading fast, and the blaze was rising every second.

Up. There was nowhere to go but up—onto the roof.

It was stupid, of course.

But what else could she do?

Of course it was stupid.

But there was nowhere else to go...

----------

Beckett and Audrey were both dragged off of their horses, and they were yanked along, up some big ornamental steps, into a large building—the naval base, Beckett thought—but once they were inside, they were both led to separate corridors.

"Where are you taking my mother?" Beckett asked, dumbly, turning around and stopping. Audrey looked over at him, as they all stopped moving.

"She goes down in the cells. You go up to see Lord Leonard," a soldier said gruffly, "Now come on."

"Hang on just a minute, will you?" Beckett asked, walking towards his mother. They were both bound in shackles; Beckett touched his hand briefly to hers. "I'll make sure you're alright," he said, trying not to sound uncertain. She smiled at him.

"You're a good boy," she said quietly.

Beckett couldn't think of anything to say. That was a perfectly normal thing for a mother to say to her son—but Beckett knew that though he certainly was many things, a 'good boy' wasn't one of them. His mother was very naive—and it made Beckett unsure of whether he wanted her caught up in this at all. She'd seen him killing, hadn't she? Heard him talking about plots and his old life?

"...thank you," he said hesitantly, and then turned and allowed himself to be lead down the corridor.

Audrey was in turn pushed towards another hallway. She had been surprised to feel Beckett touch her hand. She was even more surprised now that she felt a small key in her hand. _The keys to every pair of shackles in Port Royale are the same design..._

----------

Elizabeth had managed to scramble to the thatched rooftop—she coughed, and curled up protectively around William; outside it was cold, and up on the roof it was windier then ever. Icy chills were sent down her spine in the way that they are in all novels... she looked out across the countryside, and thought she saw four shapes streaking into the darkness; it looked like the dragoons had won after all.

They hadn't won her. They hadn't won her yet.

She had to try. As the flames crackled and built higher and higher up, she began to make her way across the thatched roof, avoiding holes as carefully as she could—she crawled on her hands and knees, William scooped up against her with one arm, and occasionally her arm would break through the weak thatching and she would nearly fall head-first downwards, catching herself with a shoulder, William wailing against her, the smoke billowing from the hole making her eyes stream.

The flames were reaching the roof now—in a crackling leap from the piles of hay to the rafters to the thatch, the front end of the barn collapsed into flame, and a couple of rafters fell into the building. Elizabeth would have gulped, had she not been too busy choking; the fire was spreading impossibly fast.

What to do?

----------

Beckett was thrown onto the floor of Lord Leonard's office into an undignified heap. Most probably as ordered. He coughed and tried to struggle to his feet with his shackles binding his hands together—and noticed a shadow falling over him, in the already dim office. He looked up, and found the barrel of a gun. Déjà vu! He wasn't surprised in the least.

_This has happened to me far too many times,_ he thought to himself.

* * *

**NB:** Got to love those cliffhangers! Attempt at a cliffhanger, anyway... also, I've been spying a few Beckett-and-Elizabeth-Post-AWE stories popping up in the ole Pirates of the Caribbean archives! Perhaps I've started something! xD Heh... I expect most of them will be better then my feeble attempt at a story, anyway... -flail- See you next update!

Extract from the next chapter:_ "But I'm not any loony," Beckett smirked, "I'm Lord Loony."_


	23. Symposium

TWENTY-THREE: Symposium

"Maybe I'll kill you now, and get it over with," Lord Leonard said, with a leer. Beckett could tell from this statement alone that Leonard was going to gloat for another, oh, two hours or so, and even then probably not kill him. So he didn't feel incredibly threatened.

"Maybe I'll write a famous book one day," Beckett shrugged as he picked himself up from the cold floor, "One never knows what accomplishments one will achieve."

"Har-de-har, Beckett," Leonard narrowed his eyes, "It's the end of the line. You're going down. You're going to die, whether it be by gun, bayonet or the hangman's noose," Leonard sneered, "Your life is in my hands, so I would be a little more respectful, if I were you."

"Hmm. Unfortunately for you, you aren't me. That's what's always bugged you, eh?" Beckett smiled pleasantly, and noticed Leonard's pulse jump in his neck.

"I'm going to kill you, Beckett," Leonard hissed, "Don't you know that everyone hated you? Everyone that smiled at you at dinner parties and chatted idly to you about business; it's all a facade. You of all people would know about _that_, Beckett. And now it's the fact that you have no friends to protect you that has let you down."

"No friends, but certainly a lot of allies—and since when have you been mister popular?" Beckett chided.

"You think you're so smart," Lord Leonard's eyes narrowed even more, "A classified genius. Looking down your nose at everyone, po-faced and all high and mighty... ugh, you make me sick. Since you've been gone, I've taken over your position, and what fun it's been too; despite the false respects they paid, they all knew that the battle had been lost to some huge failure on your part, and people talked about it behind your family's back. But no, since I've been here, things have been going uphill already—you were always a setback to the company, I've thought."

"Oh, really?" Beckett muttered, "As far as I remember, I made more money and killed more pirates for the company in one month then you ever have."

"Shut it, Beckett," Lord Leonard waved the gun, and Beckett recognized it in the dim light of one lantern. It was his—the one he'd stolen off of that drunk! He visibly relaxed, even allowing an easy smile to come to his face. "I'm just rubbing it in your face that you have been left with nothing; no friends, no posh clothes, no more rich dinners and no more _life_... all you have to cling to is a burned-down barn and your mother," he sneered, "Oh yes, I am going to kill you."

"And what's your big plan? You're going to _bore_ me to death?" Beckett drawled.

"No, Beckett—you are going to be hung. I am going to be there. Your mother is going to be hung first, right in front of you; her pretty little neck is going to be wrung like a chicken's," the visuals made Beckett want to gag. He didn't say anything, and Leonard went on, "And then it's going to be you. I am going to enjoy watching you struggle, Beckett. Struggle for your life," he gave a particularly nasty leer at this point. By this time, Beckett's mouth was open.

"Are you completely insane?" He finally managed, "All of this talk... psychotic murder and death and evil... you must have lost your mind!"

"No, _you're_ the mad one," Leonard smirked as he walked around behind his desk and sat down comfortably, in a chair that used to be Beckett's. Beckett glanced around the office—the interior decorating had certainly gone down in tastefulness since he'd left. Lord Leonard had a huge portrait of himself on the wall! How vain!

Irony, Beckett. Irony...

"Yes, well actually, Augustus, that leads nicely into my way out of the hanging," Beckett smiled at Leonard, "You see, everyone thinks I'm crazy. You've had several famous physicians sign on that very fact. Everyone believes I'm a nutcase... and you can't hang a madman."

"What?" Leonard asked blankly, "Lots of loonies have been hung in the past."

"But I'm not any loony," Beckett smirked, "I'm Lord Loony; so I have a lot more rights then some pirate nutjob. Imagine the court case—poor, deluded Beckett, completely bonkers, his mind has deserted him; if I play my cards right, nobody would have the heart to hang me! The Company would owe at least that much to me," he grinned.

"Then I'll skip the court case. Pretend it happened," Lord Leonard scowled, though, knowing that Beckett's plan was perfectly sane; which was ironic.

"Oh, yes, just skip past the biggest court case of the year!" Beckett rolled his eyes, "There's no avoiding it—you could have hung me as a horrible, nasty, pirate; but as a mislead, wide-eyed crazy man? They will punish me, yes, but certainly not hang me. I'm high up; I have allies in high places."

"That's not fair," Leonard growled, pointing the gun directly at Beckett's head, "I think I'll just kill you now."

"If you must," Beckett beamed at him, "Fire away, old boy."

"What?" Leonard was growing confused. Was Beckett _really_ mad? He shook his head, aimed the gun, and then stopped. Beckett was smiling. He couldn't allow him to die _smiling_. No, wait—this could just be a trick to stop him pulling the trigger! He was a devious bugger! He held the gun aloft again, and then paused once more.

"What are you waiting for?" Beckett asked, straightening his clothes, "I'm ready to go now. Shame I'll head into the afterlife looking such a mess."

"I've had an idea," Leonard smirked, "Fine, let your little plan pan out. I'm going to have you thrown into an asylum. No court case, nothing—you've been caught, and you're going to be chucked in the loony bin. Pardoned by the Company, as you are obviously deluded," Leonard shook his head and smiled, "Thanks for the idea—now not only will you be chucked into a little cell until you rot, but I will be seen as a forgiving and compassionate man, and welcomed more into the company!"

"Well," Beckett wasn't sure what to say to that, "I suppose that wont be too bad."

"No, Beckett, I mean it—there wont be any escape for you," Lord Leonard grinned, "Your bones are going to rot away inside a cell in an asylum, dignified Cutler Beckett; you'll spend the rest of your life being gawked at by strangers, not having a word you say being taken seriously."

"This sounds bad," Beckett muttered to himself.

"And as for your mother—is she deluded? No. Did she still obstruct the means to justice? Yes. Will she need a court case? Nope. Your mother is going to hang," Lord Leonard got to his feet, "And you wont be able to do anything about it."

"I... alright, alright, I'm sane," Beckett waved an arm, "Scratch my idea, I'll go to court." _Looks like I have to come up with a plan b,_ he thought to himself.

"No. This isn't a bargain Beckett—I'd much rather see you in an asylum then on the end of a rope. I've decided now; you're going to the bin, and your mother is hanging." He grinned as he saw the look on Beckett's face; one that said, _thing just spiralled out of my control, and I do not like it._

"Oh," he said. But inside, his mind was whirring. He'd given his mother the key to get her out of the shackles—but surely she was too dopey to formulate any sort of escape plan? As for Elizabeth, the last time he'd seen her, she'd been staring down at him from the rafters of a barn that was apparently now burned to the ground.

Things did not look good on the Audrey-Beckett-survival front.

"Men! Escort the former Lord Beckett to a cell!" Leonard called out. The door opened, and several soldiers stepped in, grabbing Beckett by the elbows. He looked around the office for a second, trying to root out any way out of his situation... but there was nothing.

It was impossible... but nothing came to him.

He would need help.

* * *

**NB:** Apologies for the lack of action... anyhow, there's Beckett's plan... but, as usual, Audrey has caused a bit of a problem. Oh dear. Also; thank you to everyone who reviewed! The reviews yesterday really cheered me up, and they were all helpful and wonderful! (Yup, even yours, elvinchick! xD) Remember not to be afraid to voice all opinions, even bad ones; I'd love to hear how I can improve. So yes, thank you! 

Extract from the next chapter:_ It was frozen down here—Beckett was shivering down to his bone, his teeth clattering of their own free will. He wrapped his arms around himself and looked at the floor, thinking._


	24. Idealistic

TWENTY-FOUR: Idealistic

Audrey looked down at her hands, frowning. Her shackles were still on—and the key was in her hands. Experimentally, she pressed it into one of the shackles; with a crack, it popped open. After thinking for a second, she snapped it closed again, hearing it click together—then she slipped the key into a pocket sown onto the front of the skirt that Elizabeth had found for her.

She was, as such, a fashion disaster. A cobbled-together outfit of stolen peasant clothing; not really the most stylish thing to be seen in. Her tight ringlets had come out, and now her blonde hair hung limp and flat over her face and the back of her neck. Her hair had began greying on the insides; so, of course, she'd dyed it; special 'hair water' from Italy. A main ingredient of the concoction was a little thing called 'aqua fortis', or 'strong water'; a corrosive solution of nitric acid.

Not really something you want on your hair. But Audrey remained blissfully ignorant of the fact, as well as the fact that the paling make-up that she wore nearly every day on her face was made of Venetian ceruse and could easily cause lead poisoning, or death.

Audrey was blissfully ignorant of many things. She always had been—raised to be ladylike, slightly meek and to not ask questions. Never had she needed to know what happened while her former husband or her son had been at work; never had she needed to know anything about politics. Her opinion had never counted, and thus she'd never gotten around to forming one.

She'd always been one of the crowd; one of a group of woman all similar to her. And she was quite certain that nobody else from her group of friends had to go through anything like _this_. Then again, nobody else from her group of friends had a hugely successful son who was being accused of piracy and had sparked off a countrywide manhunt.

_I'll make sure you're alright._ She smiled slightly to herself—even though he had barely thought about saying it, and had probably forgotten all about it now... even though he had said it quickly, and even though he wasn't someone she got on particularly well with—she felt better for it.

She felt much better for it.

----------

Elizabeth's arm sank into a gap in the thatch for about the seventh time—quickly picking herself up, removing her face from the scratchy straw, she clambered forwards again, occasionally stopping to kiss William on the forehead, wishing that she could stop his crying. The roof sloped downwards gently; every time a foot slid, she would have to physically stop herself from screaming.

Beads of sweat lined hot on her brow and cold on her bare arms; as she travelled down the roof, she prayed. She had always been raised to believe in the Christian God, and now, she prayed to him like she had never prayed before. She prayed for her life.

"Please let me come out of this alive," she muttered to herself, "Please, God—send me a miracle."

And then, like that, there it was—perhaps not a choir of heavenly angels swooping down from the heavens to rescue her, or the fire suddenly fizzling away into nothing. But to her, it was like a miracle nonetheless.

Like a gift from God himself... she spotted the cart on the ground; a large cart, stuffed with hay, a perfect landing pad—readers with a good memory may remember it from earlier on; Beckett leaned on it while listening to Elizabeth and Audrey's conversation about him around the back of the barn.

She stared at the huge pile of hay behind her, her nose and mouth covered by some loose folds of the baggy shirt she had taken to wearing. William was wrapped up too, and she made sure to let him breathe through some sort of fabric.

Unsure, she hesitated a moment, listening to the wind whistling and howling and the flames crackling and the occasional clump as another piece of the barn caved in. It sounded oddly peaceful. Shaking her head, she knew that there was no option. Hugging William tightly to her chest and hoping against hope that this would work, she jumped from the roof.

For a moment, she could feel her skirts flapping around her and her hair whipped out of her face—and then, feet-first, she landed in the huge pile of straw. She felt like she was surrounded in the stuff; after a second or two of confusion, her vision and hearing tumbling and muddling, she finally felt everything around her once more; she was in the cart over her head in straw. William whimpered in her arms, her body curled around him, seeming rather too shocked to begin his throaty cry once more.

Keeping William's face buried into her front, she used her arms to scoop hay out of the way, upwards or to the side, it didn't matter any more; pushing the piles of stuff off of her until her head and then her body were sticking out of the side of the cart, an elbow resting on the wooden support, William held tightly in the other, her face blackened with dirt and ash that she hadn't even realized had gotten there.

She scrambled out of the cart and flopped onto the grass, weak with relief and fear, just trying to catch her breath, as William finally began to wail.

Knowing that she had to do something.

----------

Beckett glanced around his cell dourly. The walls dripped with slime and moss, the stone slightly damp, and freezing cold. It was frozen down here—he was shivering down to his bone, his teeth clattering of their own free will. He wrapped his arms around himself and looked at the floor, thinking.

Tomorrow morning, he would be transported to an asylum, where he could spend the rest of his life having doctors poke him with wooden sticks and spectators throwing peanuts at him. _Come and see the infamous Lord Beckett! Half price for children! Poke him for an extra four pence!_ It would be terrible. The most demoralizing and soul-destroying thing he would ever face. The rest of his life whittled away to nothing but another room for people to gawp at.

_There will be a way out,_ he convinced himself, _there is always a way out..._

This way out wasn't quickly presenting itself, however. His mother was still threatened by death, and Elizabeth... Elizabeth and William. He pressed his lips tightly together and leaned backwards against the freezing cold wall—not that he felt it through his numbness—as he thought about their possible deaths.

_'Step onto my hands, and get up there.'_ It had been his idea for them to get into the rafters. _'Hurry!'_ Dear God... don't let them be dead. He sighed, and his thoughts drifted back to his mother.

_The last thing you said to her was a half-hearted thanks,_ a voice in his head pointed out.

_Well, thanks for that,_ another one replied.

_What does it matter?_ Another voice had piped up now, _She'll be dead soon—what you said last to her wont even matter._

_That was a horrible thought_, a voice said reproachfully.

_Gosh, that's odd for us, noticing when we think something horrible,_ this voice sounded annoying and knowing.

_'Us'? Don't you mean 'me'? How many are there anyway?_ This time, Beckett was pretty sure that it was his own voice. The other ones all shushed, and Beckett sighed loudly. _I really am crazy,_ he thought tiredly, _I just need some sleep..._

----------

Elizabeth walked through the countryside, William now calmed down and resting in her arms, her bag slung over her back. It was true to say that she couldn't trust Beckett at all—and it was true to say that he never told her _anything_. That was something that bothered her quite a bit about him. He kept all of his plans and ideas and thoughts to himself, until the very last minute, when it was no use to anyone.

No, of course she couldn't trust him.

But when she'd said to him, earlier that very same night... about her _hating_ him... well... hate was a strong word. Perhaps she didn't quite _hate _him, just—just disliked him strongly. Very strongly indeed.

As annoying and arrogant and vain as he was, she supposed that he was charming, in his own special way. She felt oddly conscious of him—even though he was supposed to be the most intelligent one of the two, his ventures into the world made her think of a small child, striding around in his daddy's big boots, as if it made a lot of difference. Naive? No, maybe not. But still...

She didn't know why that was what came to mind. It just was. She felt almost... _responsible_ for him. That was weird. Weird, and very wrong.

But... but she _supposed_... that she would have to try and help him.

It was his final act of kindness more then anything that sealed the deal for her. The way he had paused only once—briefly—before lacing his fingers together and giving her a boost up into the rafters. If he had gotten Audrey up there, he himself would have been trapped.

_If he was going to allow that to happen, he would obviously have some sort of plan for himself,_ a more logical part of her was saying.

But, as we all know, if Elizabeth was anything—it was a hopeless romantic. And her hopelessly romantic side was telling her that perhaps Beckett had done it out of kindness; perhaps he had felt the need to keep Elizabeth safe. Or perhaps even just his gentlemanly philosophy of 'ladies first'... who knew? Whatever caused him to help her... her hopeless romantic side wouldn't leave her alone.

In all of the novels that she had read as a young lady, the strangely lovable rogues, the men that seemed bad, they all had a 'soft side' to them. They all had a tragic and dark secret that kept them awake at night, a past wreaked with horror and misery. They all had a tenderness inside them; a 'niceness' which took a lot of effort to get out.

So perhaps Beckett's excuse of a tortured background was a childhood going through a wrecked marriage with a mother who liked to entertain rather a lot of men; he certainly wasn't the only one to go through _that_. And so his tragic and dark secret may or may not be a 'mark' left on him by Jack Sparrow which Elizabeth suspected strongly to be something embarrassing and indecent.

Still, at the same time... if she could just squeeze a droplet of niceness from Beckett; perhaps a tad of generosity, an ounce of compassion, just a touch of kindness; she would feel... accomplished. She knew that her task was nigh impossible.

But she realized now that she had made it like a personal goal to make a good man out of Beckett. Well, alright, a halfway-decent man. She had somehow acquired it as an aim for herself; ever since he had washed up on her island all of that time ago, she had dug and jibed and tried to see into his very thoughts... she wanted to make him 'nice'.

No matter how many times she had to smack him around the head in the process.

She sighed, the cold making her skin prickle, and snuggled William closer to her, keeping him warm, and using his warmth to in turn warm herself up. What to do? What to do now? She'd been threatening Beckett all of this time to leave him alone, to go and leave him fending for himself.

But now she realized that in doing so, she had left herself just as alone as he.

As much as she detested the idea... it would be so much safer for them to stick together. But there was a long way to go yet.

* * *

**NB:** ...cheap? Anyhow, thanks to all who reviews! Questions, suggestions, criticism; send it all in, folks--nobody's perfect at writing, and god knows I could do with the help. On another note; the next chapter was my personal favourite to write! I wonder if you will share my sentiments? 

Extract from the next chapter:_ The doctors all called him 'Cutler' like they were his best buddy, and talked to him as if he were seven years old, with the mental capacity of a Burmese Mountain dog. It was hell._


	25. Lunacy

TWENTY-FIVE: Lunacy

"How are we feeling today, Cutler?"

Beckett pursed his lips. He was sitting on a soft and round chair, inside a soft and round room, with soft and round walls and soft and round furniture. On the soft and round table in front of him was a teacup—though not the sort that he was used to. It was made of wood, large and chunky, like a three-year-old's plaything, with every edge smoothed down, and it was painted a cream colour.

Everything in his little cell—er, 'room'—was an excruciatingly boring off-white. It was so that he wouldn't become 'overexcited' at any bright colour. Gosh, even purple would be drawing it thin; and orange... ooh, orange would be living dangerously.

The doctors all called him 'Cutler' like they were his best buddy, and talked to him as if he were seven years old, with the mental capacity of a Burmese Mountain dog. It was hell. He picked up the chunky, off-white, smoothed-down teacup from the soft and round table and took a sip of the lukewarm liquid inside before replying.

"I feel... defiled," he said wryly.

Doctor Dalton Weaver chuckled. In truth, he liked Beckett—he thought that he was a funny man. However, he knew that Beckett was a patient, and so he could not form any real personal bonds to him, as it may _affect his judgement_. It was an odd thing; he himself thought that Beckett seemed perfectly sane; but if so many famous doctors had signed against that fact... well, who was he to argue?

You may be thinking that this was a little bit of a nice way to treat a lunatic in the seventeenth century. People might think of bedlam—dark cages underground, whips and cruel laughter, crazy people screaming and whimpering and trying to hide in the corners of their cells...

Well, yes, certainly that sort of thing may have happened elsewhere. But even though Beckett was a lunatic, he was... a _rich_ lunatic. And that made a lot of difference.

Of course, a certain Company had ruled that Beckett was mentally unstable and so unable to spend his money in a responsible way, but after Beckett made a 'generous donation' to them, they seemed fine with him spending his money; which was a win for Beckett, but... well, what was there to _buy_?

He had gotten himself quite a nice asylum—well, alright, there was no such thing in those days, but they had made a room especially for him on account of another strategic 'generous donation'—so that he had furniture, food, even tea; albeit lukewarm tea in a toy mug, but it was tea nonetheless. The entire front end of his cell was nothing but bars, so that people walking by could all stop and stare at him, which was demoralizing, but he supposed that it was better then nothing.

The 'doctors' here all kept a close eye on him, and there were always guards outside the stretch of corridor that went past his little cell, and now they charged extra admission for people to come by his cell; which at least stemmed the tidal wave of filthy, armpit-scratching poor folk who had stampeded into place and stood gaping at him for hours at a time.

Famous—or, more like, infamous—he was like a celebrity in this place, for all that it mattered. Reporters slipped in to try and question him, though they were led out firmly by the guards once discovered. Beckett warily realized that the papers must be full of little hand-drawn sketched of him sitting buckle-kneed in a cell, twanging a lip with his eyes crossed.

Perfect.

Since he had arrived here, it had become like fashion to have someone in the asylum. They had to build an entire other wing to accommodate the rush of mad people who had accompanied Beckett's arrival—every high-up family in Jamaica dug up their mad Aunt Claudia from the attic and paid to have her housed in the very same asylum. It was a talking point. It was gossip. It was Big News.

Beckett nursed his lukewarm tea as another rabble of people clattered past his cell, a few of them pointing at him; more then one trying to catch his attention. He used to respond to them—usually in a rather rude manner—but now he barely reacted; he didn't even look at them.

Every single scrap of dignity had been taken away from him. He was humiliated beyond compensation; and he knew that this was what Leonard wanted. Lord Leonard had decided that, no matter how much of a 'generous donation' Beckett made, the asylum were not allowed under _any circumstances whatsoever_ to allow Beckett a cell without people tramping past all of the time, pointing and talking loudly. Beckett decided this could be seen as a good thing—after all, who knew who could come and visit...?

He wasn't even allowed to bathe or shave by himself; he had to be 'helped', like some incompetent four-year-old being looked after by a nanny. It felt good to be clean and shaven again, but it was still terrible, having someone looking after him like that. In case he managed to drown himself in the shallow pail of lukewarm water that they called a bath, or in case he slit his throat open with the razor. (Alright, so back when he'd been a lord, he'd had people to bathe and dress him—put it was the _principle_ of the thing!)

Actually, he felt that wasn't too far from throat-slitting. He swished the tea around in the mug, it was going to be stone cold soon, but he couldn't bring himself to care. And this was a man who used to believe that wasting tea was a _shootable offence_. The stuff was disgusting anyway; tepid and without any sugar. It seemed that a rule of the asylum was that patients were not allowed anything at all nice, in any way, shape or form.

Beckett had, once, pulled up a sheet from his soft and round bed, and fastened it like a curtain around a small area where he could perhaps get some peace—and the doctors had all seemed impressed, as if he was a young child who had just learned to tie his bootlace; a monkey in a zoo that had fashioned a hammock out of some overalls, perhaps.

Even that little haven had been taken away from him in the end, though; apparently, it had been ordered that he had to have someone watching him _every minute of every day_. He'd been rather annoyed as Doctor Weaver took down the sheet, and tucked it back onto his bed.

"What did Leonard think I was doing behind there?" Beckett had asked, rolling his eyes, "Digging my way out?"

Right now, he sat perfectly still, looking into his tea. The people outside were beginning to become restless, wanting him to do something. _Mummy! I want to see the wolf-man! Please can we see the wolf-man? This one's boring!_ From time to time, someone would throw something at him, and though the guards would scold for it, it didn't make any difference. The terrible shame of everything that was happening to him was unbearable.

He felt degraded in every way possible.

"This place is terrible, isn't it?" he murmured to his reflection in the teacup. He noticed Doctor Weaver, who had just been leaving, shooting him an odd look.

_If I'm not crazy now,_ Beckett thought, _I certainly will be after a few months of this._

The thought left him cold with dread. This was going to drive him insane. This place was going to kill him. Oh, Leonard may have found it funny, and others may have tittered when hearing of his position—_oh, poor Beckett, he has peanuts thrown at him, tee hee!_—but to him, this was no joke.

He worried about his mother, too. Was she going to hang? Wasn't she? Had the keys been discovered on her? Had she escaped? He had no news of the outside world—another case of it possibly 'overexciting' him. If _anything_, he needed some stimulation for his mind, not avoidance of it; some way to stop his mind being wasted away to nothing. His brain may be big, but it was fragile at the moment.

Every day, he looked out across the waves of people that went past the outside of his cage.

Every day, he thought the same thing;_ is anyone going to come? Does anyone care? Elizabeth? Anyone? Are you coming? Elizabeth?_ He wasn't sure if she would or not. He didn't even know if she was alive. He'd thought that being sentenced to an asylum would be an easy way out of death. _How hard could it be?_ Oh, it was much harder then he'd first thought. Perhaps—perhaps one day, he would be able to prove himself sane and get out of here... 'healed', as it were.

Yes, right. Like there was a chance in hell of _that_ happening.

He stared down at the table, his chin resting on his hands, his mind buzzing with a million thoughts—none of which he could act on. His independence was gone. His dignity, his pride... everything. There was only one hope left for him, and as much as he loathed to rely on such a silly, improbable event, there was nothing else he could do. _Are you even alive, Elizabeth? Are you coming? Hello, I saved your life! I tried to save your life. _

_I tried my best... so... so you're coming, aren't you? Elizabeth? _

_Anyone?_

* * *

**NB:** He has no friends. It's almost sad... or does he, perhaps, have a friend to rely on? Even though it was sad in it's own way, this was one of my favourite chapters to write--I did have to research on methods of treating the insane in the 17th century, though!

Extract from the next chapter:_ Audrey was beginning to get very worried. Her son had told her that he would make sure she was alright—but was he even alive now?_


	26. Anguish

TWENTY-SIX: Anguish

It was early morning by the time Elizabeth had managed to stumble back towards Port Royale, and it was drizzling slightly. April showers. On the outskirts of the town, she went and found a nice-looking inn; she wondered if descriptions of her were circling the area yet. Perhaps there were even posters. But she couldn't bring herself to do anything about it yet; she just paid for a room for the night, and collapsed into the bed, exhausted from everything that had happened the previous day, and that night.

She slept until nearly the afternoon, and then she got up to feed and change William. She also decided that, while she was there, she might as well have a good wash; so she washed first William, then herself, and changed into some fresh clothes. She binned the clothing that she had been wearing the previous night; not only would it be easier to recognize her, but it stank of smoke.

Once she and her baby were wonderfully, deliciously clean, she went down and bought herself some food for a quick lunch—at this rate, her money was going to last her only a couple more weeks. But she would have to worry about that later. Once fed, she returned to her rented room, where William slept on the bed, and she thought.

Over the next few days, she kept her head down and went from inn to inn, keeping herself in the background, changing the styling of her hair a little, and simply looking like nothing more then a woman with a baby. That was it. Nothing more.

There were a few half-hearted posters put up—but there was nowhere near the fury of the big Beckett-hunt. She was just another pirate; _oh, if you see her, hand her in, will you? There's a good chap._ She realized that with all of the trouble Leonard had gone to in order to capture Beckett... well, he _must_ be crazy. How could a man be so determined to catch a single man?

Now, obviously, it wasn't all about the grudge. If Beckett had simply explained his story carefully, captured a few pirates to show his loyalty and done a bit of sucking up, he could have gotten off with a finger-wagging telling off, perhaps having to publicly apologize or something, but otherwise he would go scot-free, and would probably be welcomed back into his old position as lord.

As much as she disliked him, she had to admit he had been good at his job.

That was probably the reason for her dislike, actually.

She kept up to date with the news, fearing that he was about to be hanged, and wasn't sure what to think about the fact that he had been thrown into an asylum instead of being executed. Clever manipulation on his part, or mental torture that Leonard had decided to put him under?

Many bad things, she'd heard about asylums—how people visited them for amusement. Patients chained to walls, being fed all sorts of things to make them act even madder for the audience; beatings and whippings. It made her shudder just thinking about it... but she had to go and see Beckett. Apparently there was extra admission to see their latest star, but she could afford it... at the cost of a good chunk of her money.

Elizabeth grudgingly took the correct amount out of the small purse and put it into a pocket, putting her belongings into the chest of drawers of the latest inn she was staying at; the _Blackberry Bush_. It was just after lunchtime; and she took a deep breath, thinking that it was about time she paid Cutler Beckett a visit.

----------

Audrey Beckett sat, her face pointed downwards; her hands limp on her lap, the corners of her mouth pulled down to match. How long had she been in this cell? Where was her son? It felt like... days. She had been fed about ten times since her capture—with a good gap in between each one—so she roughly guessed that three, four days had passed.

Every time the door opened and the jailer came in, she would try and question him; but he would simply ignore her, and the door would thump closed once more. She was beginning to get very worried. He had told her that he would make sure she was alright—but was he even alive now?

He'd been taken to see Lord Leonard, after all. She wrung her hands together, not sure what to think. If he was dead, it would be terrible—but this not knowing, this uncertainty, eating away at her heart; the dreadful hope that he was still alive... it was much, much worse. She sighed and rubbed an elbow with another arm; wondering if she was going to rot in here. If the only person she would ever see for the rest of her life would be the swarthy, sweaty jailer, bringing her cold food.

She felt... she felt much closer to her son then she ever had before, since the rescue from the gallows, and the time she'd spent with him. Even though he'd been rude, flippant and sarcastic with her, it had felt more like a friendship then any other time in their lives; which was quite, quite sad.

Still—she knew that even though he was her son, she barely knew Cutler Beckett. She knew hardly anything about him; she didn't even really know what he did for a job, she'd just sort of imagined him in a big office, reading through ancient piles of parchment, and discovering something amazing with a cry of '_aha_!' ...or something. She didn't know what he liked, what he disliked, his favourite colour, anything at all. They hadn't shared a single moment of mother-son time together since his childhood; it had always been an uncomfortable, firm, 'Good evening, mother,' 'Good evening, son,' situation.

She looked downwards at the floor once more, where her eyes had rested for the last five and a half days.

She hoped he wasn't dead. They had a lot to talk about.

----------

Beckett sat on the soft, round chair that he always sat on, in front of the soft, round table in the soft, round room, with his lukewarm tea in a toy cup. He watched coolly as people walked by, taking the time to stare at him before wandering off again. He wasn't exactly the most exciting of lunatics—but still, it was the fact that they'd seen him that counted, not what he did. Certainly, it would be more of a talking point if he danced around the cell reciting the alphabet backwards, but he didn't really feel like doing that at the moment.

And he found it easier to write the alphabet backwards then say it, in any case.

There were times when it was better to put on a show. This was not one of those times—it should have been, but Beckett couldn't bear the soiling of his reputation any further. His insanity was the only thing keeping him alive at the moment; if several doctors were to suddenly say that he was 'cured', or something just as moronic, he could be swinging within the day.

Placing the toy teacup back on the soft, round table, he put his hands on his lap and stared out at the people. No familiar faces. Just like normal, and though he knew that he shouldn't be optimistic about this, he still felt a surge of disappointment. He told himself every day that it wasn't going to happen, but still this terrible hope wouldn't go away; it was completely wrong that he should even be thinking about rescue, yet he continued to wait with baited breath.

Having one's hope crushed every time the front of the cage came into view wasn't the most amiable of pastimes.

The other lords and ladies who had been thrown in here by their family—seeing as having an insane relative 'in with Beckett' had become trendy now—didn't have people gawping at them. They got their own private rooms, somewhere above him, where they could peacefully potter around, walking into the soft walls and singing to themselves.

Beckett, on the other hand, got this.

"Get out! Out!" There was some sort of commotion going on outside. Beckett looked up, wondering if at long last, something interesting would happen.

He'd thought that the people staring would be the first to drive him crazy—but the boredom had gotten him first, it seemed. There was nothing to do. There was nothing to look at. There was nothing to work out, nothing to think about, nothing to see or smell or touch. Nowhere to go. His mind, once in perfect condition, he felt was waning, dwindling into nothing, being wasted. He wanted some sort of motivation, damn it, some sort of inspiration...

The corridor outside of his cell was now empty. Finally, he stood up from the soft, round chair, and walked across the soft, round floor, wrapping a hand around one of the bars at the front of his cell to see out. And in walked someone familiar. Very familiar indeed.

But it wasn't what he'd been hoping for.

"How are you finding the asylum, Beckett?" Lord Leonard grinned, "I have news for you."

* * *

**NB:** AAAUUUGH! I just got attacked by a spider! It was _this big, I swear!_ Ahem, sorry. Getting a little carried away there (it just crawled right out of my physics folder!), so, uhm... poor Audrey. Feel bad for her, people. As for Beckett's visitor... not what we were hoping for, eh? I feel like I'm cruel to my characters... now, excuse me, I'm going on a spider hunt.

Extract from the next chapter:_ "Yes," Beckett said quietly, "But what my mother did wasn't her fault. It was mine."_


	27. Salvage

TWENTY-SEVEN: Salvage

"News for me?" Beckett asked, raising an eyebrow and trying to appear indifferent, though an indefinite amount of ideas had began streaming into his head. Whenever Leonard grinned like that, it was not a good sign for him.

"Yes... I think you'll like it," Leonard smirked in a way that suggested that Beckett was not going to like this at all.

"Oh," Beckett said, clasping his hands behind his back and blinking at him. Then he waved an arm towards the soft, round table and the soft, round chair. "Would you like some tea?" Leonard looked unsure of how to react to this for a moment—and then his smirk widened.

"Dear Beckett," he said, "You've finally cracked, haven't you?"

"Not at all," Beckett said idly, "It's only polite to offer what meagre contributions I have to give," he shrugged lightly.

"Long words wont convince anyone," he leered, "And anyway, onto the news—your mother's hanging has been finalized. Two days." He strode forwards, pacing down the front of the cell. Beckett's eyes followed him through the bars, like a feral animal trapped in a cage.

"I see," he said. He couldn't think of a way to help his mother at all. _I'll make sure you're alright._ Idiot! How could he make a promise that he couldn't keep?

"Yes; and I'd like you to be there. We have a new invention from France that should allow you out of this hole for the day—_la __camisole de force_, it's called. It should keep you out of trouble," Leonard smirked.

"La camisole de force...?" Beckett, of course, spoke French, as well as several other languages, fluently. But what on earth was a... a strong-shirt? A strong-jacket?

Ah, yes. The invention of the straightjacket; it was created by a French upholster by the name of Guilleret at Bicêtre, around 1790—Pirates of the Caribbean has no defenite timeline (and in some places, even seems to jump from time to time), but the invention of the straightjacket seems to tie in at around the correct date. I just thought I should mention this, so as not to make the story look overly crude.

"Yes... you'll find out what it is when the time comes," Leonard grinned. He'd seen one of these _camisole de force_ things already—and couldn't wait to see Beckett bound up in one.

"Look, Leonard—_Lord_ Leonard," Beckett said. He hadn't move from his spot near the front of his cell, about a foot away from the bars, his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze was no longer aimed at the lord, but at the blank wall opposite him; through the bars was the small walkway where Leonard was standing, and beyond that, another off-white wall. "There's no need to hang my mother."

"Oh, but there is. Who is she to think that she is above the law? That she can do as she pleases just because of her noble birth?" Leonard turned to face Beckett, "What she did was illegal, and she should pay for it."

"I don't think any noble has ever been hung for 'obstructing the means to justice'," Beckett said, "It's a stupid, petty thing to hang someone for. And you are only doing it to get at me in any case—well, you needn't bother. I'm already paying for my 'crimes'."

"What she did was her own decision," Leonard said mildly, "And you seemed to have no problem with hanging people for 'petty, stupid things'. Like the hundreds hung for simply having any connection with piracy. Men, women and children."

"Yes," Beckett said quietly, "But what my mother did wasn't her fault. It was mine."

"She was the one to grab the captain, was she not? The moment that you were in his grasp? The moment that a dangerous criminal was nearly captured, and she ruined it, and caused all of this fuss about catching you to happen," Leonard smiled, "The public will be expecting a hanging anyway. We mustn't disappoint."

"She's innocent," Beckett said through gritted teeth, "Hang me; isn't that what you want?" _I'd rather die then spend another hour in this hell, any day._

"Oh, I really would love to, Cutler, but this is much better," Leonard smirked, "And since when do you care enough about your mother to sacrifice your own life?" He rolled his eyes as Beckett's gaze dropped, "Feeling suicidal, are we? Is this place _that_ bad?"

"It's bad," Beckett admitted, "But I'd rather be here then be _you_."

"...and what's that supposed to mean?" Lord Leonard's eyes narrowed.

"You're pathetic," Beckett looked up to him with a cold sneer, "I almost pity you. What insecure wreck of a man would go to such lengths as to protect his position?"

"Well, Beckett," Leonard walked towards the front of the cell, so that they stood directly in front of each other; Leonard on one side of the bars, and Beckett on the other. "I think you'll find that you would have done just the same thing. I don't think we're that different, you and I."

Beckett stared at him in absolute horror for a moment.

It was worse because he was right.

"Nobody's going to save you now," Leonard smirked, "There is no gallant rescue on the way—I'll see you in two days." With that, Lord Leonard turned and strode from the cell, confident; velvet coattails flapping; the latest thing from Europe, powdered face, powdered wig, large-buckled shoes. From behind, Beckett realized that Lord Leonard could be mistaken for... well, himself.

_Nobody's going to save you now_.

That was ironic, as the next person he saw was Elizabeth...

----------

"Oh—oh, I'm sorry, sir," she said apologetically as she walked into one of the many guards standing outside Beckett's little area.

"'S 'right, love," came a half-hearted reply. There was a small queue already collecting outside; probably wondering why everyone had been cleared out for about ten minutes. Elizabeth jogged William on her hip with a sigh, hoping that the things he'd seen in the asylum wouldn't affect him too badly. It was pretty terrible in here. And then suddenly... she saw him, striding from the door to where Beckett was. Lord Leonard.

She had no idea what to do. Quickly, she looked downwards, averting her face.

Lord Leonard walked briskly and brushed past her as if she were nothing; but her heart still hammered. For the briefest of moments, their eyes had connected—and then he had walked on, much to her overpowering relief. Thank God he hadn't recognized her. Thank God.

Her heart still hammering, she dropped some coins into the hand of another guard at the door, and she stepped in with a small smile at the guard. She was one of the first in—taking a deep breath, she turned to look at Beckett.

Alright, she'd been expecting something hideously terrible; him being chained to a wall, whipped half to death, having blood leaked out of him to stop the pressure in his head and other such medical practices that were used in this day and age. As it were, Beckett looked fine enough—a tad ruffled, but no more. She was relieved, but also slightly annoyed. She had come all this way, and he wasn't in any danger.

Well, or so she thought. The mind, however, is a fragile thing...

Everything in here was a creamy-white colour, and everything in his room appeared to be made of... eh, cushions. His hair had grown a little, in it's usual inane manner; in fact, it seemed more curly and sticky-out then it had before. Lanterns that were encased in glass, too high up for him to reach lest he damage himself, reflected the blonde curls blandly. There was no window; just blank stretch of wall.

Beckett was sitting on a soft, round chair behind a soft, round table, looking indignant and faintly puzzled. There was also an odd sense of defeatedness around him that she had never before associated with Beckett. It made her feel somewhat sad.

But the moment he looked up... the fight was back. She smiled.

----------

"Lennon Street, midnight," she whispered, before wrenching away from him, shooting the guard a scandalized look as if to say, _how dare you let the lunatic touch me?!_ Then, she turned and left briskly.

Beckett had felt his heart lifting as he saw her enter the room. _She came. She came for me. That was... nice of her._ He stood up, and made a beeline for the bars; but not to her. He walked up to some random bloke who was there with his son first, and had asked him; '_Do you want me to tell your future?_'

Well, he didn't want to arouse suspicion, did he? Anyway, the man had seemed a bit taken aback at first, but then honoured to be being spoken to by someone famous like him, and his son had been delighted. _Oh daddy, please can we listen to what the nice mad man has to say?!_ So then he'd made up some complete bollocks, and Elizabeth had stared at him as if he were crazy.

She had, for a moment, believed that he had completely lost it and usually did things like this. But she caught on as he walked up to her through the bars and asked her the same question.

"Want to know what the future holds for you?" He asked with an easy grin, trying to appear as lunatic as possible. "And can I touch the baby?" He smiled at William, "I like babies." Upon hearing the news that Beckett was actually interacting with his audience, a couple of physicians had come from sipping tea in an office—and occasionally checking on a couple of the richer mad people—to gawp at him.

_Elizabeth had better get me out of here,_ Beckett thought, _because tomorrow, these people are going to be intent on 'testing' me._ Oh, what jollies; which of these colours appeals most to you? What does this shape remind you of? Can you do the jigsaw puzzle? It had been infuriating.

Anyway, she was gone now—as Beckett sat down, he surreptitiously slipped the key that Elizabeth had gained while bumping into a guard, and then given to him while he patted William, up a sleeve; though he knew that once the guard realized that they keys were missing, there would be an almighty search for them, so he would have to hide them fast. What he _didn't_ know was that Elizabeth was smarter then that, so had dropped another key—perhaps one of the ones that Audrey had stolen along with the shackle keys, back at the rescue—into his pocket.

But what _Elizabeth_ didn't know was that there was a round of guards every midnight. Beckett had had no chance to tell her. And now he had to escape, past guards, through an asylum, and then somehow get to this _Lennon Street_, wherever it was.

Well, _any_ escape was preferable, surely...?

* * *

**NB:** Now I have the Great Escape stuck in my head... also, I did research in the straightjacket! And I think it's in the correct time, because sugar cubes wern't invented until 1790, and we see plenty of _them_... will the escape go as planned? I think we all know the answer to that one... PS, things are now looking steady on the spider front! Phew!

Extract from the next chapter:_ She ran along the doors, calling through each of them; Audrey? Audrey Beckett?_


	28. Arrangements

TWENTY-EIGHT: Arrangements

Midnight. The sky was as black and velvety that night; the air was humid, and foggy, the ocean mists had come good and far into Port Royale. That was an advantage, right? Elizabeth shifted the bayonet on her back, already missing her darling William.

She'd left him back at her room in the inn for the mission—the _Blackberry Bush_. He was sleeping in her room, peacefully enough, but her insides were twisting; she felt sick with worry. The things she would do for Beckett! Or his mother, in any case. She marched into the prison, looking as rugged and manly as she could in her stolen naval uniform.

Yes, it was the same trick that Beckett had tried. And yes, it was quickly thought-up and a tad rushed. The last night, she had hidden herself outside of the prison where Audrey Beckett was being kept—thank God for press leaks, though it didn't seem to matter any more, as they didn't think anyone else would be interested in rescuing Lady Beckett—and watched the guards change. The change took place at five minutes to midnight.

She had knocked out one of the officers on his way over to the prison, and now she would take his place as one of the night guards. There would be two on duty; it would be a simple matter to knock the other one out and then skippity-skip into Audrey's cell, break her out, and then hopefully meet Beckett at the end of Lennon Street, and then they ran like the wind and got _out_ of there.

But plans... they hardly ever go as they're meant to.

As it were, this one led to a tragedy of the most awful sort.

----------

Beckett had decided that, at about ten to midnight, he would make his move; leaving him a slot of only ten minutes to get out of the building. If he left too early, someone could come across his empty cell and raise the alarm, or he could arrive at Lennon Street ahead of Elizabeth, which would look mighty suspicious. But if he was late... well, Elizabeth might leave without him.

He hoped against hope that she was saving his mother. He had tried to get the message across to her; _what are you doing here, fool?! Go save my mother!_ Hopefully it was blunt enough.

Now, to know the time to get out of here, he needed a clock. Another small detail that Elizabeth had overlooked. Honestly... Beckett prided himself on being able to think of everything; Elizabeth could at least do the same. But no, he'd had to find his own way around it, as usual. Still... he was grateful for her for getting him the key.

Doctor Weaver. Beckett felt that Weaver was a friend now. They were always exchanging dry comments with each other, and Weaver didn't even try to disguise the fact that he liked Beckett, despite the unprofessionalism of it all. Beckett had found it easy enough to acquire a clock; _but it would make me feel more safe to know the time, and being an incompetent lunatic and all, learning to tell the time could be good for my mental well-being._

"You put up a compelling case, Beckett," Doctor Weaver had smiled, puffing on a pipe, "I'll have one sent up... off-white, of course. I'll fix it up myself."

"Certainly," Beckett had said deprecatingly, "Knock yourself out." He couldn't wait to get out of here—see some _colours_, for once! So, come ten to midnight, he had jammed the key into the cell door, taken off down the corridor... and the rest, as they say, was history.

It had been eerie, in the half-darkness, sneaking through an asylum, tip-toeing through the black. Down stairs, along corridors, his heart in his mouth. Every time he heard a sound, he would freeze—as he did now. From somewhere below him, underground in the more violent cells, he heard a long and echoing scream, followed by some animalistic sounds; growls and barks, made by a human.

Shuddering, he continued going down stairs; the cold of the stone seeping through his socks. He wasn't 'allowed' shoes. Finally, he came across a room with windows; he was on the ground floor. Yes, good; now to find the way out. The door was locked, of course—though he tried it just in case.

He ran up to a window and pulled it lightly; no effect. He was about to give up, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw something gleaming metallically. His mouth dropped open in horror when he saw some sort of monstrous metal contraption, obviously made to fit some sort of person inside. Biting a lip, he turned to the window and gave it a good bash; sighing in relief as it creaked open, with a whine of protest.

----------

Elizabeth walked into the prison with her head down—as she and her fellow guard took up position in the main room, the other soldier looked around, seeming surprised.

"Where's Ricky?" He asked, sounding puzzled.

Without hesitating, Elizabeth swung the bayonet from her back and hit the man on the head with full force, knocking him unconscious. Quickly, she ran to the opposite wall, where there hung a loop of jangling keys. She ran along the doors, calling through each of them; _Audrey? Audrey Beckett?_

She got a reply from one of them; weakly, a voice called out to her. She rushed to the door and stuffed a random key in—it didn't work, and she tried another, rushing madly, trying and trying to make it work. She had to be quick. Guards changed every half an hour, to keep the place extra safe. And who knew when the other guard would wake up?

Eventually, she found the correct key, and she shoved it in the lock, before pushing the door open with a crash, her hand outstretched.

Audrey Beckett looked a mess—her hair was ragged and unwashed, she looked even thinner then before (and Elizabeth hadn't known that this was possible) and her pale face seemed blotchy. Her eyes were wide and pale as she leapt to her feet, her long period of sitting making her ungainly.

"Come on, Audrey," Elizabeth urged, "We don't have much time."

That was when five soldiers marched in from another room just off the side—extra guards, just in case. They'd been in a side-room, and having heard the commotion, were coming out to check.

"Run!" Elizabeth shrieked, and she and Audrey turned and rushed for the door.

----------

Beckett was shivering when he arrived on Lennon Street—he walked around the corner, his breath showing in the air in front of him. He blinked once; and then Elizabeth and Audrey ran into him.

"We have to go, _now_," Elizabeth hissed, as Beckett made to say something, "Things didn't go according to plan. There's-," she was cut off by a bell beginning to ring from the direction of the prison; peals of loud ringing; _bodoonnnngg, bidaaanng, bodooonngggg..._

"What happened?" Beckett hissed; suddenly, redcoats appeared at the end of the street, muskets in their arms.

"No time... let's go!" Elizabeth had a hold of Audrey's forearm. She looked frail, tired and dishevelled—she looked to her son, managing a weak smile, before they began to run. Beckett turned to his mother to say something... but he didn't get the chance.

There were multiple cracks of muskets firing; the sound collided with that of the bells in glorious and terrible contrast, echoing off of every building in range. The cobblestones around them erupting into sparks as bullets bounced in every direction; even in the darkness, however, one bullet found its mark.

The sound of firing was laced with a piercing scream.

* * *

**NB:** Sorry for the lack of update yesterday! Due to some events that were completely unavoidable and out of my control! (Alright, I lost track of time while shopping.) Anyway, this is a bit of a cliffhangery one--can you guess who was shot? If they'll be ok? I must warn you that the next chapter is my first attempt at a sad and serious scene; so you can all go crazy with the concrit on that one.

Extract from the next chapter:_ "What do I do now?" He whispered, questioningly, mostly to himself—his eyes sliding downwards._


	29. Obscurity

TWENTY-NINE: Obscurity

As his mother fell forwards, pushed forwards by the force of the bullet, Beckett reached out and held her; stopping her from toppling to the ground. A look of shock had somehow found itself on his face. Quickly, he leaned in, putting an arm around her shoulder, supporting her. He motioned for Elizabeth to do the same. Between them, they managed to drag her away; they slipped down an alley, and around a corner. The redcoats had to reload their guns—and while they were doing so, Beckett, Elizabeth and Audrey all collapsed onto the ground in a dingy alley.

"Mother, can you hear me?" Beckett asked, kneeling next to her, looking concerned. She curled up on the ground with a small moan; her head was on Elizabeth's lap, and Beckett was kneeling by his mother's side, his gaze intent. "We'll find a physician. We'll go get someone who can help us. Then, then we can... we can..."

"I don't know, Cutler," Audrey finally spoke; her voice was thick with pain. "Look. Look at me. Will it get better? Is it too bad?"

Beckett's gaze travelled to a crimson stain on her stomach—the bullet had gone through her from behind, and had come out from her front; her lower abdomen was burst apart at the front, blood cascading out now that she was still. Beckett went cold with dread—he looked at his mother, his mouth opening and closing. A small frown furrowed his brow; this wasn't meant to happen. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Beckett shook his head slightly.

"No," he said, seeming unable to find any other word. He reached out and took a hold of one of her pale hands, frowning deeper as he looked into her eyes, "We'll find a way."

He had always thought that he was perfectly prepared for the day that his mother would die—which he had expected to be rather soon, what with her lack of eating and the amount of poisonous make up and hair dye she used, and the drinking was bound to catch up with her someday. He had always thought that he was ready to say goodbye to her; that it wouldn't affect him at all.

But it wasn't meant to happen this way. She wasn't meant to die, drenched in her own blood, shot in the back, lying in some grimy alleyway, far from home, right in front of him, in so much horrifying detail. It was happening too fast. It was too much, too soon. Beckett wasn't prepared for this amount of emotion after spending nearly a week hemmed in to a place that had seemed intent on driving him crazy.

"No... it's no _use_..." she winced, her eyes closing. Beckett hesitantly reached forwards, moving some of her fringe from in front of her face; her eyes snapped open. An affectionate gesture from her son—she had been waiting almost two decades for this. It had happened at last; but time was running out.

"Mother," Beckett said evenly, "You know you can't die on me like this. You're not meant to."

"Yes, but there are things that are meant to happen... and things that do," Audrey gave a small, pained laugh, "I'm sorry, Cutler... all of this has been for nothing. Rescuing me, risking your life... it's all been..." her voice faded.

"Shush..." Beckett ran a finger over her cheek, "It'll be fine. It'll... be fine." He repeated it, as if to reassure himself.

"I'm going to die," Audrey said, appearing not to have heard him. "I don't know what to think. It's strange, knowing that you're going to die." Beckett shook his head again, a shade desperately. Elizabeth had no idea what to say or do; she felt out of place here. Like she shouldn't be seeing this. "I'm... I'm scared..."

"It's not as bad as it looks," Beckett said, sounding like he believed himself completely and utterly—as if there was not a single atom of doubt in his mind. He touched a hand to her stomach; Audrey winced in pain, and Beckett's hand came away, a print of blood over his hand.

"Oh... oh, Elizabeth, look after my boy," Audrey said softly, her eyes looking watery in the faint light, a light sob hitching in her throat, "He thinks he knows so much, but... but the world's so dangerous... there are so many people like Lord Leonard who'll... who'll just..." she fell back into silence. Still so naive, even in her death; Elizabeth felt like weeping. She gripped Audrey's shoulder tightly.

"I don't need looking after, mother," Beckett said.

"Everyone needs looking after," Audrey replied with a small smile and a wince that she failed to cover up. The pain was immense; blinding her, white dots dancing in front of her eyes. It had made tears come to her eyes; but now she was crying for a different reason.

"Everyone knows that that's what mothers are for," Beckett said softly, "You're my mother." The emotion on his face, in his voice, was so naked—so raw, that Elizabeth felt it wrong for her to see it. She had never linked Beckett to such things. She looked down at the cobblestones, averting her gaze. She felt helpless—useless.

"Oh... I know I've always been a disappointment as a mother..." Audrey sighed sadly, and Beckett shook his head again.

"No... you... it's not..." he stared at her, as if he didn't know what to say. As if he wasn't sure. Beckett was never unsure. Elizabeth's heart hammered; she didn't know what to do. What to even think.

"You've never forgiven me for that time that I got pregnant, have you?" She gave a tiny, helpless smile, "Like you're the parent, not me."

"It wasn't you I was angry at," Beckett said, "It wasn't you. It was him."

"Don't blame him. He was one of many. I started it. And now... everything's fading away," Audrey sighed, her breath fleeting and faint; Beckett gripped her hand even tighter; for his benefit as well as hers, Elizabeth felt. She continued looking downwards. "I wonder what's waiting on the other side?"

"You can't," Beckett said, "I mean... you can't." There were undertones of confusion to his voice. Like he wasn't sure how this was happening, or why. And a deep conviction—as if he were absolutely certain that this wasn't right.

"I'm old enough to die now, son," Audrey smiled, the feeling in her hand was fading; she could barely feel her son's grip now, "Ready to die in obscurity."

"No, you're not," Beckett said immediately, shaking his head once more.

"You always disagree with everything I say," Audrey smiled softly and tried to shake her head, but the pain was strong in her stomach, and everything was beginning to feel numb. Her vision was swimming. "I've been forty for the last ten years, Cutler. You knew that. Everyone knew."

"Mother..." Beckett looked at her, "I didn't... I don't... don't talk in past tense."

"It hurts, Cutler," Audrey whispered, "It hurts so much. I have to go now. But I'm scared... really scared... I've always been scared..." Beckett looked at her; there were no tears in his eyes, and no desolation on his face; a faint desperation, perhaps, a touch of doggedness.

"But it's not meant to happen like this. I didn't want this to happen," there was a rough edge to his voice, and a deep desperation that wrenched Elizabeth's heart. She wished she were with William; hugging him tightly in her arms, right at that moment in time. Beckett stroked his mother's cheek again, looking straight into her grey eyes, the frown still on his face. _What I don't want to happen isn't meant to happen._ There was a sort of grim determination to him; as if he were absolutely certain that his mother couldn't die yet.

"I know you didn't, Cutler," Audrey said soothingly, "You tried. You tried so hard. I wish we could have done this before," Audrey said sadly, managing to raise her other arm, with enormous effort; her strength felt like it was being sucked out. She felt like the ground was enveloping her—and she was ready to simply sink in. "Talked like this." Her hand touched his cheek lightly, her fingers curled.

Elizabeth could only look on, feeling even more like crying. Her emotions rocketed; sorrow, pity, sadness, sympathy... the way that mother and son were gently touching each other's faces, the way they tried to soothe each other with their simple presences in each other's lives—almost animal, in a way, like some basic instinct. It was like it wasn't Beckett there. It was an ordinary man. An ordinary man, watching his mother die.

"I don't think I could have," Beckett said, one of his fingers on the hand holding hers stroking her palm gently.

"Everything's... everything's going... it feels... strange," Audrey's eyes slid out of focus, and her eyes blinked slowly. Beckett brought her hand up to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles; a simple and polite gesture, but more then he had ever shown to her before. She gave him a tiny smile, before her eyes fluttered closed.

Inside Audrey, everything was shutting down. Her hearing, her feeling, her vision. Black rings appeared around everything, her vision closing down until she could barely make out her son's face. The pain seemed far away now; the wet cobbles on the road beneath her seemed to have become part of her. Suddenly, she couldn't find the strength to move; not a single muscle. Her tears left trails of makeup on her cheeks; tears of pain that she had cried as she was shot, tears of sorrow, tears of fear... just tears.

Men weren't meant to cry. Men weren't meant to be emotional. Stoic and steady, men were supposed to be unaffected by this sort of thing. Though he didn't cry, he was feeling strongly, and though he tried to cover his emotions as best as he could, Beckett had been through a lot recently—his time in the asylum, the constant threats on his life, the roller coaster of emotions he had been forced to suppress when concerning Elizabeth, William, his mother, practically everyone in his life.

"What do I do now?" He whispered, questioningly, mostly to himself—his eyes sliding downwards as his mother's eyes closed, as if he were trying to think through a mist. Elizabeth heard boots crashing on cobbles; coming closer. She tore her gaze from the ground, and saw shadows flickering at the end of the foggy alleyway.

"Beckett, we have to go," she said gently, gripping one of his shoulders.

"Wait, just wait a second," he said, trying to disguise the roughness to his voice, the odd, choking texture to it. He closed his eyes; facing the facts. His mother was dead. He had to accept that, move on. When he opened his eyes, all emotion had been pushed to the back of his mind, pushed deep inside. Some people found it hard to mask emotion; and others, like Beckett, could do it with great ease.

Soundlessly, Elizabeth helped him to his feet; Audrey's hand fell from his grasp and onto the cobbles, and he realized that he had left a handprint of crimson blood on her pale skin. He looked down at his own hand, as if in some sort of detached surprise.

"Cutler," Elizabeth whispered. She could hear men walking closer now, and in the distance, orders were being shouted.

"Let's go," Beckett said, his voice suddenly returning to normal. He turned away from the body of his mother, and allowed Elizabeth to lead him, out of the alley, down a side street, far away.

He didn't look back. He couldn't have if his life had depended on it.

* * *

**NB:** So... how did I do on my first ever real-life 'touching' scene? Was it cheesy, corny, clichéd or crappy? Too drawn-out? Did I go overboard? I tried not to push it to the point of Beckett bawling his eyes out in an out of character manner, but neither did I want it completely emotionless.

There's also that whole 'things left unsaid' thing between mother and son... I suppose you have to be a murderer sometimes when you're being a writer, so to speak, heh... more plot development next chapter. I just felt that this scene needed its fair share of coverage.

Extract from the next chapter:_ Beckett's voice was cold, indifferent, and matter-of-fact; devoid of all emotion. No expression showed on his face, or in his voice. He walked out of the room, and closed the door gently._


	30. Meaninglessness

THIRTY: Meaninglessness

They arrived back to Elizabeth's room at the _Blackberry Bush_ inn in stony silence. Elizabeth had attempted to make conversation, but his replied were nothing more then noncommittal sounds. Once they arrived, Elizabeth rushed to check on little William, who was still fast asleep, much to her relief... and then she turned to Beckett, who was still standing just inside the doorway, looking sullen.

"Cutler," Elizabeth said softly, "Are you alright?" He looked at her for a moment.

"My feet are cold," he said, vacantly. Elizabeth looked down, and noticed that he was not wearing shoes. She looked back up at him, biting on a lip and swallowing.

"Do you want to... talk about it?" she asked.

"Talk about what?" he replied, blankly. Elizabeth coughed, uncomfortably, and made a small noise in her throat—not wanting to say it. "No," Beckett replied flatly.

"Look, I think you should just try-,"

"I'm going to get cleaned up," Beckett interrupted her, turning away towards the door again, and opening it.

"The... the bathroom's just across," Elizabeth stammered. Beckett's voice was cold, indifferent, and matter-of-fact; devoid of all emotion. No expression showed on his face, or in his voice. He walked out of the room, and closed the door gently.

Elizabeth sat down on the bed, stroking her baby's forehead, glad that he was all right. She'd been sick with worry, and missed him so much—she decided that she would try to avoid leaving William on his own for the rest of his time as a baby. She also decided to get out of the stolen uniform that she was currently wearing.

----------

Beckett washed his hands, and then his face. The blood swirled away down the washbasin, until it was all gone. He dried his hands off on a towel, and then looked in the mirror. His reflection looked back, eyes glassy. He spotted a razor and sharpening stone on the side, and decided to have a shave, simply for the sake of being able to do it by himself. It wasn't his, and usually he wouldn't have touched it for fear of catching a disease from some contaminated peasant, but today he bypassed his usual rules of hygiene and shaved anyway.

Once he was done, he glanced in the mirror again. He stared around the bathroom; decorated in stone, with a small window, a washbasin and a cracked mirror. There was a bucket on the side that was now half-empty, with a small sign asking anyone who used it to refill it. Usually, he would have laughed at the sign and walked out, but today he picked it up, went outside, and filled it up at the pump on the street corner, which was nearby. He didn't really think about the risks of being caught.

He returned to the bathroom with the bucket full, and slammed it down on the side once more, cool water slopping over the sides. For some reason, he couldn't unfold his fingers from the wooden edge of the bucket for a moment—he just stood there. Then, after a few minutes, he dried his hands on his shirt, and then glanced around the bathroom once more. He felt cold... shivery. He walked, he sat, he paced, he stood.

"I think I'm going to be sick," he muttered.

----------

He wasn't sick, and about half an hour later, returned to the room. Elizabeth was in her normal clothes again, her hair looking like it had been hurriedly brushed. She seemed concerned about him. When she asked if he would like the bed, he politely declined, and went to the window, staring out at the streets. Elizabeth sat herself on the bed, and he could feel her eyes on him, worrying.

About an hour after that, there was the crash of boots on the cobbles outside. Beckett didn't react, but Elizabeth couldn't help but gasp and clutch William to her chest. The fog tossed and rolled outside, and through the steamy windows, Beckett watched as a squadron, armed with muskets and all, with lanterns on long poles dimly showing them the way, marched; right past the inn, and around a corner. He wondered vaguely if they had found his mother's body yet.

About three hours later, Elizabeth was asleep. It was nearly five in the morning; and it had began to rain a little... just small smatterings of springtime rain. Beckett continued to stare out of the window, his mind working, his face still expressionless. He felt disjointed—like he wasn't connected to the world any more. He had pulled himself out of the everyday humdrum, and now he had to think about what to do next.

In his restless mind, a plan began to formulate.

----------

When Elizabeth woke up, small spears of sunlight were poking weakly through the curtains; she looked at baby William, still soundlessly sleeping beside her, and then she stood, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She looked around the room for Beckett, and for a moment panicked, before spotting him—he was sort of lying, half on the floor, his arms and head resting on an armchair, body curled around in a U-shape.

She was worried about him. He had been acting disconnected yesterday; as if he hadn't been thinking properly. Well, having his mother die in front of him was probably rather stressful, Elizabeth felt. But she had been hoping for a little more opening-up. For him to trust her with his feelings.

It was one of the bases of the upper-class world that emotions had to be buried deep underneath layers and layers of falseness; facades came down, everyone was guarded, everyone kept themselves protected from one another. No sharing of deep feelings. No close contact. That was why Will had been so refreshing to her—he was himself. Nobody in the upper-class world acted themselves. Though as he'd gotten older, he had developed his sense of propriety, and a minor disappointment on her part had followed; though eventually, she had managed to get through to him.

She supposed that, in a way, she had hoped that Beckett would eventually feel close enough to her to tell her his feelings, his thoughts and ideas and aspirations, everything he kept hidden. It was a stupid idea, though. Beckett had always kept everything from her... so she could hardly expect a change now, could she?

"Miserable," came a bleary voice from beside her. She spun around, and saw Beckett, staring out of the window next to her.

"Cutler," Elizabeth said uncertainly, "Look, don't you want to talk about-?"

"I meant the weather," Beckett replied flatly. "And no, I don't want to talk about 'it'. I don't want you to ever mention 'it' again. Don't even... think about it. Forget it. Don't tell anyone, don't remind yourself, and don't remind me."

"But... why?" Elizabeth asked, rubbing one of her cheeks, "I just thought-,"

"I don't _want _to talk about it," Beckett shook his head curtly, "And now we're moving on. I have an idea about where we can go to next."

"Oh?" Elizabeth asked weakly.

"Back when I was... not a criminal, and not dead, I owned several houses," Beckett said, "In Jamaica, mainland America, England, Paris too. Large estates. I'm sure the main ones are being watched, but... I had a few hideaways. Just some secreted little homes." He tilted his head forwards, keeping his eyes glued to the fogged-up windows.

"Really?" Elizabeth asked, "Why that would be... that would be great."

"They're probably empty now. I kept them full of staff all year around, before; they got free lodgings and money for food, and I had secret places to retire to should I need to. With as many assassination attempts as I've received, you don't exactly boast the place you live to the world," he continued.

"You just left servants there?" Elizabeth asked, "But while you were away, what if they... had a party, or something?"

"They could do as they liked," Beckett said unconcernedly, "As long as the house was ready for me to return to when I needed to, all was well." He yawned, and clasped his hands behind his back in a very Beckettish manner, his back ramrod straight, despite the fact that there was nobody he had to impress now. It was simply the habit of a lifetime.

"So... we're heading to this country house of yours?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yes. A stagecoach to Danarton, and then we can walk the rest of the way, out into the countryside. It'll be empty, secluded, and safe... quite safe, anyway. We can't stay there forever, but it'll be a good place to regroup," Beckett sighed.

"Danarton?" Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, "Isn't that place supposed to be completely rough?"

"It is a bit, yes," Beckett agreed, offhandedly.

"Also... I think I just about have enough money for a stagecoach to Danarton, but we're scraping the barrel here," Elizabeth sighed, "We'll have barely any money left after this. Then what?"

"Never mind," Beckett said airily, "It's sorted."

"Beckett," Elizabeth said, turning to him, "Would you mind just telling me what you mean by that? You're just always rather vague with your plans, and it might help to tell me... eh?" She had been planning on being extra nice to him because of his mother's death and all, but he got on her nerves. And he seemed to want her to act like it never happened—so she was...

"I have safes at many of my houses, including the country house near Danarton," Beckett said idly, seemingly unaffected by her minor outburst, "There's enough money there to last for a long time."

"Alright," Elizabeth replied weakly, also feeling a tad frustrated. She had been annoyed—then, in a calm and indifferent manner, he had simply told her. He arched an eyebrow in a way that seemed to say, _all you had to do was ask, you know._ There was also, she felt, a touch of reproach on his face.

"Let's get going, then," Beckett muttered, standing up, "The searching out there is going to be vicious. I guess we should take the darkest routes in the city—and I need to get out of these clothes, too..."

As he pondered aloud, pacing the room in his usual manner, Elizabeth realized that Beckett was back to his ordinary self... or thereabouts, anyway. Elizabeth was worried though; worried about his mental health, to be exact. He'd been through a lot. Though she despised the fact that she actually worried about him, she felt that he needed a break. Just a short rest from all of the stress and panic of being a criminal, being plunged into a world full of hate and death. Just a small holiday.

This country house would be just the thing, right...?

She well and truly hoped so.

* * *

**NB:** Fleh! I think I'll be staying away from touching scenes for a while, then... someone--duettino!--said that it actually made them laugh, which is somewhat beyond the point! xD I just wanted to expand on my writing, as it tends to be all happy-clappy escapade, and no real emotion being searched. Pssht! Anyway, Elizabeth thinks Beckett's a bit loopy? Huh! Jumping to conclusions, as we know, never got anyone anywhere...

And duettino; no, the story doesn't end here. I've written more since. :)

Extract from the next chapter:_"What the public don't know," Lord Leonard smiled grimly, "_Can _hurt them."_


	31. Getaway

THIRTY-ONE: Getaway

As the stagecoach rattled onwards, Elizabeth sighed and jogged William on her knee. He looked around him, large eyes inquisitive, looking adorable with his little round nose and big cheeks, and his sticky-out ears. Elizabeth had taken the time to buy a soft, round ball for him; it was made of soft material, and had lots of different patterns and colours on it—apparently, that sort of thing helped a baby to learn, or something. Clumsily, he took a hold of the ball in his tiny hand, his perfect little fingers bunching up around it as he brought the soft ball towards himself. Elizabeth still couldn't help but wonder at the faultless detail of her baby; every tiny little thing, his exquisite little fingernails...

William, after his troublesome first month or so, had a placid and sweet temperament; which Elizabeth was glad for, as they had been through a lot. He still cried, and it wasn't always easy, but what made Elizabeth most proud was the way he was changing—developing into a real person. His characteristics grew every day, and he made her fill with pride.

"You haven't been spending that much time with William, you know," Elizabeth said mildly to Beckett, who was sitting next to her, pretending he wasn't watching.

"Why should I?" He replied with a frown, "He reminds me too much of Will Turner senior in any case."

"What is it with you and the insults to my husband?" Elizabeth asked, rolling her eyes, "Do you really have that much of a problem with his personally? Or are you just bitter to everyone who hasn't earned your respect?"

"Both, really," Beckett said in an amused voice, "He's not exactly the brightest of people, is he?"

"He's my husband and I love him," Elizabeth replied, a touch snappily.

"There's no need to get defensive," Beckett smirked, "And anyway, there's also the fact that he buggered off and left you alone on an island, while pregnant. That's not the most caring of things for a husband to do, is it?"

Ah, yes. She still hadn't told Beckett the truth about that. She was wondering whether to risk it or not—probably not—when the stagecoach stopped, and a couple more passengers got in, battered-looking suitcases clutched in their hands. This left no more space for talking, especially about things as secret as the truth of Will's fate.

Beckett coughed and looked downwards, though he needn't have worried about being recognized; the stagecoach was far from Port Royale now, and Beckett was wearing a heavy cloak—stolen, of course—that draped over most of his face. It would have been suspicious; but right now, those darned April showers were just so unpredictable, practically everyone was wearing a cloak.

Sneaking out of Port Royale had been one of the most nerve-wracking experiences they had been through recently; though not quite the _most_ nerve-wracking. Beckett was agitated the whole time, and had an immovable fear of being recognized—while Elizabeth was just worried that Beckett would do something stupid, vis-à-vis avenge a certain someone's death.

He'd want revenge—that much was Elizabeth was sure of. One of Beckett's rules of life seemed to be, '_Never let go of a grudge.'_ Which reminded her immensely of... someone.

Lord Leonard, to be exact. To be completely honest... Elizabeth couldn't see much of a difference between Beckett and Leonard, apart from maybe the fact that Beckett was a tad more intelligent (not that she would ever say it) and that Leonard seemed to have a little less control over... well, himself.

Yes, she had to admit, Leonard did scare her a little. He was scary in his own, strange, creepy way. His relentless hunting-down of Beckett especially—he was like a dog with a bone. He wouldn't let go.

And now... well, now Leonard was no longer the dog and Beckett was no longer the bone—they were like _two_ dogs, circling each other, and it wasn't going to end well. Elizabeth looked sidelong to Beckett, sitting with his hands on his knees and his face pointed downwards. His face seemed expressionless, but she could see that he was thinking hard.

She could do nothing but hope he didn't try anything stupid.

----------

Lord Leonard's eyes narrowed, and he glared bad-naturedly through the foggy night; he was standing just outside the prison, his mouth pulled downwards in a severe frown. There had been a breakout at the prison—a young man, apparently, had seen it fit to bust Audrey Beckett out of her prison cell. We have gone back to the previous night from where we left off with Beckett and Elizabeth travelling in a stagecoach—to the night of the break out.

"Lord Leonard..." an extremely worried-looking young lieutenant walked towards him, emerging from the mist a bit at a time, "We have... we have some bad news..." he seemed frightened.

"Well, what is it? Spit it out, man," Leonard snapped, scowling. The lieutenant did not seem encouraged by this. Leonard could feel what was coming—he just didn't know exactly what it was, yet...

"It's Beckett, sir," the lieutenant looked like he wished that the ground would swallow him up, "He's gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes, sir... he's... he's gone, sir." Leonard's fists clenched, but other then that, he tried not to let any emotion cross his face. It had always been a personal weak spot of his, keeping everything about him penned up inside; something Beckett had been ever so good at. How he despised that man...

"Search the area. If seen, he's to be shot on sight," Lord Leonard ordered, his voice a tad strained, "No more niceness. Beckett must... he must die."

"We did find his mother, though, sir," the lieutenant said, nodding eagerly.

"Oh?" Lord Leonard smirked, "How many times is this going to happen, eh? She's perfect blackmail material..."

"Uh... no... not quite, sir," the lieutenant looked at him for a moment, "You see sir... she's dead." Lord Leonard's eyebrows shot to the top of his forehead. "The firing squad hit her through the mist. Her body was down Greigham Alley."

"Killed his own mother, eh?" Lord Leonard's eyes narrowed, "That will fit the press perfectly."

"But, sir, he didn't—I mean, he didn't kill her, sir," the lieutenant said reproachfully.

"What the public don't know," Lord Leonard smiled grimly, "_Can_ hurt them."

----------

Upon their arrival, Beckett graciously stepped outside and offered her a hand to help Elizabeth down. Elizabeth graciously ignored him and leapt from the stagecoach by herself, William mewling in her arms. Beckett's hand hovered in the air for a moment, and then he snapped it back to behind his back, turning and beginning to walk.

It was drizzling slightly, and the rock-strewn ground was scattered with puddles and patches of mud. Elizabeth wrapped the blanket tightly around little William, and cradled him close to her, his small face resting against the folds of her shirt.

"Which way now?" Elizabeth asked Beckett, as the coach took off again.

"It'll come to me... any second now..." Beckett muttered, looking around the centre square of Danarton. Because of the somewhat miserable weather, there were not many people about; just some posters slowly dripping on the walls, blind panes being banged closed, and a woman hurried past with an armful of washing, doubtlessly saving it from the shower.

"I think we need to have a long talk, Cutler," Elizabeth sighed as they walked.

"Oh, give it a rest, will you?" Beckett rolled his eyes, "What is it with you? What is it with women? Do you all _enjoy_ spilling your guts all over the table about every little thing that ever happens in your lives?"

"It's nice to be informed," Elizabeth said scathingly, "And in any case, I don't think our recent experiences could count as 'little things'!"

"We have about half an hour of walking before we arrive," Beckett said, flitting from their current topic of conversation to another with the utmost of casualness—as if what Elizabeth had just said hadn't even happened. A habit that she detested. She frowned at him, but decided not to dignify him with an answer.

"I don't like you," she found herself blurting. _Damn it._

"And I don't like liars," Beckett smirked, "So it looks like our feelings are mutual."

* * *

**NB:** I decided to give little William some more screen time, as he's been being ignored lately! And Will too, who Beckett still doesn't know the truth about. He just assumes that Will Senior is off sailing on the Dutchman... and bad Leonard! Bad! Thanks for reviews, they are loved very much! And again, apologies or lateness; aaugh, site glitches! 

Extract from the next chapter:_ "Into the madhouse," she muttered. Beckett froze._


	32. Domesticity

THIRTY-TWO: Domesticity

Beckett tapped a finger on his chin as he looked fondly at the country manor—tucked away, behind a forest, half an hour away from the small town of Danarton. It was pretty-looking; not as humongously massive as his other homes, Elizabeth felt, but still one of the biggest homes she'd ever seen.

"It's massive," she said, stopping her moody silence to make this observation. She couldn't help herself.

"And that's just the driveway," Beckett smiled serenely, and then began walking up said driveway—a long strip of stony ground, going around in a loop; from the pathway, right up to the house, and then around and back in a circle—the middle of the loop was filled with plants and ornamental ponds, and statuettes and various other pieces of decoration. The sun was going to set soon... they'd spent the entire day travelling.

"How are we going to get in?" Elizabeth asked, following behind him as they made their way up towards the house—Elizabeth with growing trepidation. What if it was a trap? What if the place was full of redcoats, awaiting Beckett's return?

"Just follow me," Beckett said; offering no answer to her question. Still, Elizabeth felt it better to simply do as he asked.

It took them a full ten minutes to get past the long drive.

"I though this was a secret home!" Elizabeth exclaimed, "Why do you need such a long drive? As if one hundred guests are about to come and stay the night? Hmm?" Beckett did not turn his head towards her, though he did sigh slightly before contributing a reply.

"You never know when you'll need the space... or, indeed, the warning..." Beckett muttered. Elizabeth was surprised.

"Care to elaborate?" Elizabeth asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I've had many threats to my life in my time," Beckett drawled, as they finally reached the manor—he did not, however, begin to climb the white steps up to his large porch. Instead, he began walking around the side of his home, "I've always had to keep guards. Like the former Mister Mercer; more then a clerk, though I'm sure you knew _that_ already," he smirked, and arrived finally at the edge of the home.

"Assassination attempts, you mean?" Elizabeth asked, looking interested. Gosh, she hadn't thought that anything as, well, exciting as that ever happened in upper class life! That was the reason she had pursued information about pirates all the time, after all... excitement. She had found aristocratic life boring, and stifling.

"Yes. There are plenty out there that would happily murder me," Beckett said casually; he arrived at a gate that led around the side of the house, and pushed it open easily.

"If that's the case... why does the gate to the back of your country estate simply swing open?" Elizabeth demanded, as they both strode through towards the back of his home—even from here, Elizabeth could see the long stretch of grass and flowers and trees and gazebos; though the garden appeared to have gone to pot a little.

"Hmm. Well, seeing as nobody really knew about this place, I suppose that when the servants found out about my death, they just... left the place. Went to find work elsewhere. Probably pinched a lot of items too," Beckett muttered. "I used to have guards here. Guards at the doors. Guards at the gate. And Mercer went by on very little sleep indeed—he foiled many an effort at murdering me." He smiled faintly. Those were the days!

"I see," Elizabeth muttered uncertainly. "And how are you planning on getting into this _fortress_, huh?" They had reached the back of the house now, with white gravel crunching beneath them. Beckett walked up onto the patio, regarding his garden with a somewhat rueful expression.

"Well, that's the grounds gone to pot," he muttered, before striding off across the patio. Elizabeth had no option but to follow him, her question unanswered. Finally, they arrived at a sort of hatch in the ground.

"A not-so-secret passageway?" Elizabeth asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, this leads to the coal cellar," Beckett said idly, "And the coal-cellar leads to the rest of the house."

"But it's locked," Elizabeth said, motioning at the chains and padlock.

"Yes, it is," Beckett rolled his eyes and crouched down, "But one should always be prepared for the perceptible day when one must break into their own home."

"Don't tell me you left a key under the doormat!" Elizabeth pursed her lips.

"Of course not—I wouldn't dream of hiding my key in such a ridiculously easy-to-locate place," Beckett said scornfully, before picking up a potted plant right next to the entrance to the coal cellar, and pulling a key out from underneath.

"That really is... well, that's just pathetic, really," Elizabeth managed to say.

"It's saving our lives, is it not?" Beckett asked, inserting the key into the padlock, "We can stay here for... I don't know how long, really. It would probably take a couple of weeks at the _least_ for Leonard to dig up sufficient information to learn the existence of this place," Beckett shrugged, "I don't really have another plan after this. Another manor of mine, perhaps?"

"How many do you _own_?" Elizabeth demanded, as the key clicked, and Beckett heaved the heavy trapdoor upwards; it crashed to the patio on the other side of the newly-opened hole in the ground loudly.

"A few," Beckett said vaguely, "This isn't the most inconspicuous of break-ins, is it?"

"No. Not very graceful at all," Elizabeth rolled her eyes, "Alright. In we go, then." Beckett led the way down the creaky steps into the cellar; and Elizabeth followed, a tad grudgingly. "Into the madhouse," she muttered. Beckett froze.

"Please don't use expressions like that in my presence," he said, "It makes me nervous."

Elizabeth didn't know if he was joking or not.

She hoped he was.

----------

After the grand tour, Beckett and Elizabeth both stood in the main hallway, somewhat idly. They were both tired after all of their days of non-sleep and constant belligerence from... well, everyone, really. Including each other, in some cases. Beckett sighed, and looked towards her.

"They _did_ steal a lot of things... the curs. And they also thoughtfully emptied the larder, so all we have for nourishment at the moment is wine from the wine cellar, and..." he frowned, "A jar of sweets, a tin of biscuits, some bread that I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot-pole and some other scraps," he shrugged at this point, "I suppose we'll have to make do until tomorrow."

"Alright," Elizabeth said wearily, "What now?" Beckett had started walking again, and Elizabeth padded behind him as they arrived in the red drawing room. She had slung her bag of belonging down in the main hallway.

"Do you mind doing a number of tasks, Elizabeth?" Beckett asked her, turning towards her with an extra exhausted look, "My shoulder hurts," he tagged on the end, for added effect. Elizabeth rolled her eyes, but nodded anyway. Beckett sat himself down on a white and yellow-swirled sofa that was coated with dust, and smiled gratefully.

"What sort of tasks?" She asked him.

"Well... make a fire, see if there are any bedcovers left in the linen cupboard—you know, the one I showed you—perhaps heat some water, and... make us some tea, will you?" Initially, Elizabeth was outraged... but her resolve weakened at his tired face.

"Sure... in what order?" She asked, handing William over to him. He rolled his eyes derisively.

"Oh, where were you dragged up, Elizabeth?" He asked, "Milk first, then water through the filter, and then you stir in the sugar with the-,"

"Never mind," Elizabeth interrupted him crossly, turning and storming out of the room. She agreed to help him—as a _caring person_—and that was the thanks she received! Hmmph. She decided to do her tasks in any order she pleased; and anyway, they were perfectly reasonable things to do when introduced into a new house. Or an old one, really.

She marched up the long, elegant and curved stairs—as pretty as they were, they were a bugger to climb—and threw open the door to the linen cupboard. Indeed, there were some dusty sheets left in there. She slammed the door closed and began walking back down the long stairs, not bothering with the ornate, wooden handrails. At each sectioning, there was a small statue of a noble-looking man, each holding candelabra in one hand. She decided to light them the next time she went by.

Once she got back down to the main hall—noticing the large, equally ornate, dark-wooded door—she kicked off her shoes, which were uncomfortable after all of the walking she had done that day, and padded across the cool, white marble floor; scattered with rugs that were so deep and plush that she sank to her ankles in them.

_What a place,_ she thought as she made her way to the kitchen; through the lavish dining room, strewn with expensive-looking, velvet-lined chairs. There were a few silver plates and intricate candleholders on the table, over the silky white tablecloth, but she could tell that a lot of them had been stolen. She smiled to herself as she thought of Beckett's face when he realized that over half of his precious home had been filched away by his loyal servants.

Once she had entered the slightly less-grand kitchen—kitchens not being a place that lords like Beckett were supposed to frequent—she rummaged through some cupboards, and discovered that the 'best' china had been taken, but there were still some teacups left.

About half an hour later, she returned to the drawing room, setting down the tea on a sideboard. Beckett was sitting on a comfortable-looking chair in front of a roaring fire—in front of the fireguard, William lay on the floor, on top of a snuggly-looking sheepskin rug on the floor. His fingers curled and brushed through the long, creamy-white fur... he looked perfectly happy there.

"I was rather hoping you would make the tea first," Beckett said indolently, taking a sip.

Elizabeth decided to take a long gulp too, before she actually burst a blood vessel.

* * *

**NB:** Oh dear. Not the most harmonious couple, are they? Thanks to all for reviews! Any constructive criticism would be welcomed--specifically on Beckett's character! (Slightly Crazy? xP)

Extract from the next chapter:_ "Oh, oh Will, my darling, my sweetheart, my love, my dumpling, my dearest, my honey, my one and only, my cheesecake, my watermelon, my bedside table..."_


	33. Examination

THIRTY-THREE: Examination

When Beckett woke up the next morning, he felt considerably more refreshed. He sat up in his four-poster bed, feeling fully rested in a way that he hadn't felt for a long, long time. Oh, how he had missed the softness of a _real_ bed. He had graduated from the ground on an island, to a chair, to a hammock, to various barns and then to the round, soft bed of his off-white room in the asylum.

The asylum. He was far from that, now; he was safe. The softness of the asylum couldn't compare with this; the asylum had been like padding over something very hard. This was real luxury. Feathery heaven that he could simply sink into a sleep... safe. Safe, for once.

He never, as long as he lived, wanted to even see another asylum ever again. That was for certain. He stood up, pushing the curtains of his four-posted bed aside as he padded over to the sideboard and opened the curtains up; heavy curtains that drowned out the world. Weak sunlight poured into the room, making everything glow softly in a strange, pure light.

_Not bad,_ he thought, smiling lightly. He was home again—for a little while, at least. Now he had more time to think and plan and try to come up with some way to turn his life back around.

When he had arrived in his sleeping chamber yesterday, he had found various ornaments gone, the wardrobe doors thrown open and rummaged through, and the bedding gone. Thus had come about Beckett's first attempt at making a bed... he'd spent about half an hour wresting with the sheeting and suchlike.

Now he peered into the wardrobe, pulling out bits of clothing until he had an entire outfit. He didn't really think about the fact that getting into his usual, full-on ruffles and coattails clothing could be a major giveaway. He sauntered off behind a gilded screen and changed... recently, he'd had to get used to that—he'd always had servants change him, shave him, everything.

A few years ago, however, he had decided to begin shaving himself, as you never knew whom to trust, and it would be too easy for a possible assassin to slit his throat whilst shaving him. Hmm. The disadvantage of having an innumerable amount of enemies...

Once he was clean and finished with his usual morning regime—minus the wig, as he had found them scattered over the floor, much to his disgust—he completed his outfit with the usual cravat, and then allowed a small smile, feeling himself again; he hadn't felt that way for a long time. For the last fourteen months, he had felt like he was being another person—well, several other people, to be exact. One of them had a name; Hunter Kelley.

When he walked out into the corridor outside of his private chambers, he found Elizabeth idly looking at a wall-hanging, jogging William on a hip. When she turned to face him, her mouth dropped open—she closed it again hurriedly, but still looked somewhat... appalled.

"What?" Beckett demanded. He knew that this was rather rude, but couldn't help himself.

"You look..." Elizabeth shook her head, "You look like you used to."

"I know," Beckett preened, "Isn't it wonderful?"

"No," Elizabeth scowled at him, "Take it off. You don't look like yourself."

"Don't be stupid. This _is_ myself," Beckett frowned at her, "Just because I've spent the last year and two months wearing rags doesn't mean I should stick to it forever."

"At least take the waistcoat off," Elizabeth said weakly.

"No," Beckett muttered, striding past her, "Do you know what the time is? I think we may have slept in."

"It's nearly midday," Elizabeth said, following behind him. _At least he's not wearing a wig,_ she thought, disgusted. Now he looked like his old self again—the Beckett that she had always _hated_. Somehow, she felt betrayed.

"Brilliant. Let's have a healthy breakfast of old bonbons, and then... I don't know, what do you want to do for the rest of today?" Beckett asked.

"I... I don't want to do _anything_ today," Elizabeth sighed, "I just want a nice day in. Doing absolutely nothing. A day of rest," she smiled, thinking of the day stretching ahead of her, "No death. No Leonard. No insanity." She couldn't help but notice Beckett flinch a little at the last word.

"Quite," Beckett said, "You spend the day lazing around, then, I have work to do."

"Work?" Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, "What work?"

"I... oh," Beckett said, frowning slightly, "Nothing. I was just... I don't know what made me say that, really."

"It was the cravat talking!" Elizabeth said spookily.

"Indeed," Beckett muttered, as they both arrived in the drawing room they had drank tea in upon their arrival. Elizabeth lay back onto a gilded chez-longue, William cradled to her chest, looking up towards the ceiling. It was, as everything here was, ornately decorated.

"Beckett," she sighed, "We need to talk."

"Not _again_," Beckett muttered, seating himself on a chair besides a table, and picking up a candlestick, inspecting it. A few of the jewels that had been embedded into it appeared to have been picked out.

"No, I'm being serious, Beckett," Elizabeth sighed, "We have so much to talk about."

"Such as?"

"Well... everything. I don't think we trust each other enough, you know? Just... plans. Thoughts. Things about our lives. Just... just things," Elizabeth trailed off slightly at the end, even feeling a little bit embarrassed. She didn't want to say it. It was the sort of things friends did.

"Oh? And what thoughts are these?" Beckett rolled his eyes, "If your topic of conversation include the words 'mother', 'asylum' or... or 'good person' I will actually have to put you out of your misery. Perhaps a glancing blow to the head," he swished the candlestick through the air—but Elizabeth realized that he hadn't said that they _couldn't _ talk; just that they couldn't talk about _some things_.

"I can start," Elizabeth said, sitting up. She laid William down on the sheepskin rug again, where he happily waved his fists around.

"Oh, brilliant," Beckett muttered boredly.

"Because what I think about all of the time... what I'd like to be able to talk to someone about... is Will," she said with a small sigh of longing. Beckett looked disgusted for a moment. "_What_?" Elizabeth demanded.

"Oh, as if I want to hear you dribbling on about that moron!" Beckett rolled his eyes, and began a simpering impression of Elizabeth, "Oh, oh Will, my darling, my sweetheart, my love, my dumpling, my dearest, my honey, my one and only, my cheesecake, my watermelon, my bedside table..."

"I don't sound like that!" Elizabeth snapped. But Beckett was having too much fun to stop now.

"Ah, Will, my dumpling, my darling; if only I could hold your forever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and even more ever after that. You opened up my heart and gratefully I shalt recieveth yours, as well as your liver and intestines..." Beckett's tone was dry as he reached the end of his sentence. "All in all—I don't want to hear it."

There was an astonished silence from Elizabeth for a moment.

"Have you been reading my diary?" She demanded, "_Again_?"

"You have a diary?" Beckett asked, arching an eyebrow. "And even more disturbing... you actually write things that like _that_ in it?"

"No, of course not," Elizabeth huffed, a shade quickly, folding her arms. However, she couldn't deny that Beckett's dramatics had cheered her up somewhat. Perhaps there was some use in him being such an ass after all. "I just think... I think you have the ability to be a good person, Cutler!" She decided that as it had worked (sort of) with Jack, she might as well come right out with it again.

Beckett groaned and rolled his head backwards, closing his eyes.

"I'm being serious..." she sat up, resting her arms on the lip of the lounger, "I think that you... I think that you're lonely. You've spent your whole life lonely. And I think that that is what has made you like this."

"Like _what_?" Beckett asked, looking a tad outraged. How dare she slap these false excuses on him, excuses for being 'like this'?

"Bitter. Evil. Twisted," Elizabeth grinned at Beckett's expression, "It's the truth!"

"Elizabeth... alright. Look here. I am going to say this once, and only once. So you listen, alright?" She nodded, and Beckett got to his feet, sighing. "I am not 'bad' because I have spent my whole life 'lonely'. I do not do 'bad things' because I feel alone, and neither do I spend my nights languishing in my chamber wishing that I had something more," he sighed tragically at this point, "I am not 'bitter' because daddy didn't love me, and I am not 'twisted' because mummy was a whore." He paused here, his expression unapologetic and brusque.

"Beckett... I just think..." Elizabeth started, but she was cut off once more.

"I'm not 'evil' because I was an only child... I was not abused in any way as a child, in fact, I was spoiled—which, admittedly, may have had some sort of effect on my outlook, but the fact that I realize this means that the subject is rather redundant in any case. The things I do... are not some cover-up for a deep, yearning and poetic soul..." he rolled his eyes.

"I don't think that," Elizabeth argued, "I just... it's just that..." she shook her head in disbelief, but allowed him to continue.

"The things I have done in my life—which you have described as bitter, evil and twisted," he glared pointedly at her, "I did because I am, in essence, not a very good person. I know this. God knows I've been told enough times... my reasons consisted more of things like 'power', 'money', and 'because I felt like it'—not for the good of the country," he pursed his lips, "Sure, when I was young and new to my station, I thought it was for the good of Great Britain, and all of that bollocks... but then..." he shrugged, "I grew up. Don't we all?"

Elizabeth could only stare at Beckett after this long monologue. Eventually, she sighed, shaking her head. "But I don't believe that someone could be so... cold. You _are_ emotionally developed—like, like when... when she died. You felt something then. I know you did," she bit her lip, hoping she hadn't overstepped the line.

"_Emotionally developed_... oh, please," Beckett muttered, "Of course I felt something when my mother died; it would be abnormal not to. People regard me as cold, but I'm not _inhuman_," he pursed his lips, obviously not happy talking about this, "You think that people are divided into the good, and the bad; it's far more complicated then that. Some people are good at times, bad at other times; it depends on the situation."

"And in what situation have you ever been good?" Elizabeth snapped, beginning to feel frustrated.

"I didn't say that it applied to me," Beckett shrugged, "And in any case, my deeds can be seen as noble by some—trying to rid the seas of pirates, possibly saving thousands of lives in the process."

"It was for your own gain," Elizabeth snarled, "And many of your dealings were illegal in any case!"

"True; but since when has the law dictated what is and isn't morally right? You of all people should know that," a patronizing tone crept into Beckett's voice, "I committed crimes, yes... but I committed them to assist in my task of destroying piratekind. It weighs out, really—how would _you_ know my true intentions?" Beckett raised an eyebrow.

"I said you were a good person... _underneath_... but I know that what you used to do was for yourself," she narrowed her eyes at this point; this conversation was reminding her of all of the reasons she despised Beckett.

"How interesting. One minute you are ever so keen to pin up all sorts of excuses on me for being an 'evil' person... and now you've gone all contradictory on me!" He rolled his eyes, "Women—they can't keep their minds focused on one thing for more then a few seconds..." Elizabeth flushed with anger at this, but decided that it would be better to think her replies over and try to—heaven forbid—outsmart him then to simply snap back at him.

"You say that good and bad are more then simply two sides, and you are right—white and black, with all of the shades of grey in between. But somewhere within that grey area, there must be a divide; a difference, no matter how slight, between what makes good and bad." Elizabeth felt that this response was rather good, for something she thought up on the spot.

"Well, I'm afraid I beg to differ," Beckett stood abruptly, "And I don't want to talk about this any more. Understand? You've had your little talk—and that's that over with. Thank _God_."

"But-,"

"I promised you one talk—and one talk is what you received. That was about twenty minutes, I think... about the correct amount of time for one small conversation," Beckett drawled.

"So now you're putting units of measurements to the time of 'one talk'?" Elizabeth asked, bewildered.

"Yes... yes, I am," Beckett said, smoothing down his waistcoat.

"And amongst all of this good-and-bad gibberish that you're spewing—where does a certain Jack Sparrow stand, eh?" Elizabeth stood up too, frowning, "Can you answer me that?" Beckett sighed theatrically.

"As much as I loath to say it, you are right, Elizabeth," he said, and Elizabeth was surprised to hear this, "We do have a lot to discuss, you and I. But not here, and not now. So please, be quiet?"

With that, he left the room, with a slightly ironic eyebrow raised.

Elizabeth frowned... at first, feeling unsatisfied with their miniature argument. But then she paused, thinking things over—she'd perhaps learned a lot that day.

"Arse," she muttered.

* * *

**NB:** I was rather worried about this chapter--long, deep talks and Beckett don't mix too well. And also, thanks to my delta (err, beta) Karen, who has began work on the Runaways! Trust me, this chapter--well, all of my chapters, really--would be a lot worse without her. It was about time I got a beta for my horrible writing. 

Extract from the next chapter:_ "Elizabeth!" Beckett rolled his eyes, "Stop staring at me as if I've gone senile!"_


	34. Adjustments

THIRTY-FOUR: Adjustment

It was two hours when Elizabeth saw him next.

"This is where you've been hidden?" She asked, standing in the doorway. "I've been looking for you!" This was the only room on the third floor of the house—there was a set of stairs that swooped upwards at the very back of the second floor, and it led to a small hallway; this was the only door there, at the end. There was no door in the doorway; there was, however, a door lying on the floor; kicked in, presumably.

"Why's that?" Beckett asked. She stepped over the door on the carpet, and into the room—she frowned at him,

She was in some sort of office—lavishly decorated, of course, with a large wooden desk that Beckett was sat behind, with cabinets around the room, maps and charts spread over tables, the usual. The strangest thing was that Beckett was behind the desk, writing intently. Pursing her lips, she walked forwards, and saw that he was going through Company ledgers, checking trade routes and suchlike, she guessed. She wasn't too informed on what paperwork he actually _did_ for his job. His previous job.

"What are you doing?" Elizabeth asked with a frown.

"Work..." Beckett muttered, not looking up from his writing. He looked inanely peaceful, sitting there. Elizabeth picked up a sheaf of parchments from the desk, and frowned, looking at the dates.

"Beckett... these are dated over three years ago..." she said, looking towards him. Beckett's quill froze over the inkwell where he was dipping it; he blinked, as if waking up from a dream. "Let me ask again; what are you doing?"

"I... well, there _was_ a reason," Beckett said, furrowing his brow, as if trying to remember something important. Elizabeth looked at him, concerned. "I suppose it needed to be done..."

"Are you feeling alright, Beckett?" She asked, somewhat worriedly. She felt that he'd been acting strangely just recently, and you may too—huge lapses of judgement, patchy memory, and the times he'd been talking to himself. As amusing as it had been at the time, she was beginning to get slightly concerned over Beckett's well being. Perhaps the time in the asylum had pushed him over the edge? But it had started before that...

Elizabeth couldn't deny that Beckett had been through... well, rather a lot, just recently. There was him being blown up and washing up on her island, for a start—and then being shot. Then he left her island, and joined the navy, and then he got 'caught' and was named a criminal for the entire world to hear, marked forever as a madman. Then he'd had to go backwards and forwards, saving his mother from people who were trying _anything_ to kill him, and then there had been that whole drama with the handcuffs and herself. Then the capture... the asylum... his mother's death...

So he'd been through a lot. But it was no reason for him to go insane, was it? There were lots of people who went through worse, surely? She moved towards the desk and plucked the quill from between his fingers.

"I just need some sleep," Beckett muttered, standing up and shaking his head.

"And... and you're feeling alright, are you?" Elizabeth asked, carefully.

"Elizabeth!" Beckett rolled his eyes, "Stop staring at me as if I've gone senile! I just came up here and found the door to my study—which I _always_ kept locked—knocked down... probably those servants again..." he narrowed his eyes, "And I thought I should check to see if any documents had been stolen. Then I noticed that some of them were incomplete, and..." he shrugged nonchalantly, "It would have bugged me."

"I'm just at bit... _worried_ about you, that's all... you need a break," Elizabeth said cautiously. She didn't like to say it, but she really was rather uneasy about his behaviour. He'd been acting paranoid too—which was with good reason, but it had still been disconcerting.

"Elizabeth, will you please stop that?" Beckett asked, walking around to the front of the desk, "I'm perfectly alright... you're just being annoying now. Let's go down to Danarton—for some supplies and whatnot," he looked at her imploringly.

"Fine... fine, alright," Elizabeth sighed, "But you just... you just take it easy, yes?"

"I shall," Beckett said calmly, opening a drawer and picking a small pistol up—Elizabeth frowned at him, and he waved the pistol in the air as if making a point. "I am now armed, Elizabeth. No more threatening me with your sword."

"Right," Elizabeth said, somewhat warily. _Armed and bloody dangerous. _

"That's that sorted, then," Beckett said with a nod, sticking the gun into a holster that was concealed somewhere on his person; in the lining of his frockcoat, perhaps. Elizabeth remembered that Beckett, back when he was lord of the East India Trading Company, used to always carry a pistol with him. Paranoia. He'd probably always been paranoid... but it was called 'careful' with him, because he was rich.

"It's a half-hour walk, so go and get some shoes on now," Beckett drawled, standing up. Elizabeth nodded, and left his office. Still wondering about his state of mind. Ironic that his only ally begun to think that he needed an asylum as soon as he managed to escape from one...

----------

"You stand out a bit, Cutler," Elizabeth said, wrinkling her nose as they arrived at the doorway. Beckett rolled his eyes, and grudgingly slipped his frock coat off and held it out daintily by one finger, before dropping it on the marble floor in a heap. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow—and he also removed his waistcoat. "And the cravat," Elizabeth smiled sweetly, and Beckett glared at her as he undid it and added that to the building pile on the floor. With his top half clad only in a ruffled shirt, he looked to stand out much less.

"Happy now?" He asked her, heaving a tragic sigh.

"Do you have money?" Elizabeth felt strangely like a mother scolding a young child. Beckett nodded.

"From the safe," he said, holding a small, velvet bag aloft. It made a faint clinking noise. Elizabeth wondered exactly how much money was in there—probably enough to purchase a fair-sized house.

Elizabeth held William on her hip, and then noticed Beckett was walking back, further into the house—she frowned, and spoke, "The door's over here, Cutler."

"I know," he replied, turning around and walking backwards down the hallway, "But the door is locked, and I do not have a key for it. So we are leaving via the coal cellar from now on, I'm afraid." Elizabeth nodded, relieved that it hadn't simply been one of those... moments.

She was, perhaps, jumping the gun a little. But if anything, Elizabeth was the type to be suspicious, especially of a character with a background as colourful as Beckett's... and it's strange, the thought of her worrying about Cutler Beckett, of all people.

----------

"Do you think we need more sauce for the lamb?" Elizabeth muttered, her eyes scanning the shelves. Beckett was standing, bored, occasionally glancing around the shop rather furtively. The girl behind the counter had her eyes on a clock, her elbows on the counter. She didn't look any older then thirteen. Becket's lips were pressed together, as he looked at the parting of her hair, showing the milky white skin of her scalp. "You leave the local girls alone this time, eh?" Elizabeth suddenly whispered to him.

"I'll try," Beckett replied dryly, though he was a tad stung by her comment.

"Mmhm," Elizabeth sounded unconvinced, and she bumped William up and down, showing him various things on shelves—jars of honey, pickled eggs, all sorts of different things. "Are you going to help?" She asked.

"Who, me?" Beckett looked at her, scandalized, "How am _I_ supposed to know what to buy?"

"It's not exactly a life-changing decision," Elizabeth rolled her eyes, "And I was under the impression that you were always making deals anyway! Hmm?" She tickled William under the chin, and then looked at him with her eyebrows raised.

"Yes... but... I don't do _groceries_!" Beckett looked so offended that Elizabeth had to laugh. Shaking her head, she moved off towards the other side of the shop, browsing the shelves once more. Beckett wished that she would hurry up—he wanted to go home again. He didn't feel safe out here at all. He was certain that, someday, the posters would even reach the far-out dump that was Danarton.

Elizabeth finally made a decision, and after purchasing, deftly dropped a few jam jars in Beckett's arms, before walking out of the shop. Beckett stared after her with his mouth open for a minute—_don't you know who I _am Finally, with a scowl, he followed her out.

----------

"Beckett," Elizabeth sighed suddenly, as they walked back towards his manor, "You've been acting so... strange, recently." Beckett stopped, and gave her a funny look. Then, realization hit.

"Strange? You mean crazy?" he narrowed his eyes at her. Elizabeth coughed, but didn't deny it. Beckett blinked at her—and then, in one smooth motion, pulled a pistol from the lining of his frockcoat and aimed it at her forehead. Elizabeth froze—more in shock then anything else. She very much doubted that he would actually shoot her, especially with William in her arms.

"Beckett?" Elizabeth asked softly, "What are you doing?"

"There will be no more false accusations of insanity," Beckett said curtly, "I don't like it. You're jumping to conclusions. Seeing things that aren't there. It's annoying, and it's not right."

Elizabeth simply nodded. Beckett stuck the gun back into his frockcoat, seeming to have calmed down sufficiently now. He nodded back at Elizabeth, who was still staring at him, aghast.

"I'm glad we had this talk," he said, wryly.

----------

"What now?" Elizabeth asked Beckett, putting her hands on her hips. They had bought a _lot_ of supplies. They both stood in the kitchen now, most of the food and suchlike packed away, with very minimal effort on Beckett's part; in fact, he seemed almost sulky. It amused Elizabeth no end. "I know... how about some food?" Elizabeth suggested to the silent Beckett.

"Food would probably be good," he said, snapping out of his moodiness instantly. He looked around the kitchen. "Can you cook?" He asked.

"_Excuse _me?" Elizabeth folded her arms; "I take it that you are looking to _me_ to do the cookery for you because I'm female?"

"Well... yes," Beckett blinked, "I was just wondering if-,"

"Well, Cutler," Elizabeth wagged a finger in his face, "There will be none of that. It's the two of us now—and everything will be equal. Seeing as I made the tea yesterday, I think _you_ should have a go at cookery!" Beckett looked shocked.

"But I don't know how to-,"

"Neither did I!" Elizabeth opened her arms out, "But I learned, didn't I?"

"But... people like me aren't _supposed_ to cook!" Beckett stuck out his bottom lip huffily, "You probably had _some_ sort of idea of what you were doing—I've never touched a stove in my entire _life_..."

"Well, now's the perfect time to learn, isn't it?" Elizabeth asked briskly, "So will you do it?"

"No!"

"Oh, thank you Cutler, you are a dear, bye-bye then, see you later!" Elizabeth smiled sweetly and skipped out of the kitchen. Beckett stepped forwards, and had the door slammed in his face.

"Have it your way," he murmured, turning away from the door. He put a finger to his chin and looked around the vast kitchen for a few moments. Hmm...

* * *

**NB:** Elizabeth should be worried. Very worried... 

Extract from the next chapter:_"Don't shout, Elizabeth, it's unnecessary," Beckett said mildly, seeming unaffected by her speech. Elizabeth realized that if she had to take this for much longer, her head would probably actually_ explode


	35. Cuisine

THIRTY-FIVE: Cuisine

Elizabeth supposed that there had been no hope for Beckett to begin with—so it was ridiculous, really, to hope for any sort of feast. She trouped downstairs, cradling William in her arms, and wandered into the dining room.

The manor had a strange sort of beauty to it, but at the same time, it seemed... haunted. It looked uninhabited by anything but spirits now. Though there was a bird's nest in the library. Everything had a thick layer of dust coating it, and had to be brushed down before sitting on it, leaning on it, or anything, really. It made everything seem grey; the wallpaper, the carpets, the tabletops, the chairs and loungers.

She walked into the dining room, and glanced around at the dust everywhere. The chairs, the long table, the mantelpiece above the fireplace, the wooden floor and the rugs upon it—everything was covered. She had William supported on one arm, and some cushions in the other. She made a nice little pile in one corner, and propped William up.

He had learned to sit up about a week ago, and she couldn't be more proud of him—all right, so it was a relatively simple thing, but it was a big step. He sat happily now, his thin hair curling upwards, light brown, his eyes now a gorgeous mahogany brown. Elizabeth smiled and waved at him, and then popped her head around the kitchen door.

"Have you got any food ready yet?" Elizabeth asked Beckett, who was leaning against a counter, sipping at a cup of tea. Not too promising.

"Oh? Yes, yes I have. Two more minutes," he smiled at her sweetly, and it made her suspicious. Still, _any_ food was better then none, right?

Wrong.

----------

She looked at the two covered plates on the table in front of her—slightly wary of what lay beneath. She had not smelt the waft of delicious cooking coming from the kitchen. Not that she had expected it. In fact, she had expected there to be black smoke pouring out from under the door.

"If this is the main course and the dessert, where's the starter?" Elizabeth asked.

"Oh, so I have to make starters now?" Beckett rolled his eyes, "If you're so desperate for a starting dish, eat the pot plant." Elizabeth sighed, and pulled the top off of the plate containing the 'main course'.

It was the lamb they'd bought.

That was about it. Not cooked, no sauce, no vegetables... just the leg of lamb, bleeding slightly onto the silver-coloured platter. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose.

"Cutler, this is raw," she said.

"It's rare, actually," Beckett corrected her.

"It's _raw_."

"Rare. Extra rare..."

"Beckett!"

"Alright, extra-extra-_extra_ rare, then." He sounded amused.

"Not funny. You haven't cooked this at all," Elizabeth sighed, dropping the lid back down with a clang, "What have you been doing for the time you spent in the kitchen? Because I know that it's not cooking."

"What? How could you assume such a thing?"

"You were in there for _three hours_, Beckett," Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

"Oh, yes... well, admittedly, I spent most of it pouting." Elizabeth exhaled heavily. "And drinking tea. I still can't believe they took the best china. They were all the way from London." Beckett examined a nail idly. Elizabeth blew her fringe out of her eyes, and folded her arms.

"You did this on purpose."

"Did what on purpose?"

"You did _this_," Elizabeth waved an arm towards the two plates, "On purpose. To convince me that you can't cook, so that I'll have to cook. Didn't you?" Beckett made to protest, but Elizabeth continued, "Well, it's not going to work. You will cook. You will cook if I have to teach you every little thing. Alright?"

"I don't want to cook," Beckett muttered, wrinkling his nose as if the very thought was below him, "It's not my job."

"Funnily enough, that doesn't automatically make it _my_ job, either!" Elizabeth said. Beckett blinked, as if the thought hadn't ever occurred to him.

"Yes, it does," Beckett said—not in an arguing tone, just the tone of someone explaining something obvious to someone with very little brain capacity. Elizabeth put her hands on her hips, and gave him her best 'no-nonsense' look.

"You pig," she sighed, "Are you ever going to learn? The world is not your slave, and you are not my superior any more. You're not Lord Beckett now—you're a convict on the loose. If we're going to have to work together, we actually have to... _work together_! If you're afraid of getting your pretty little hands dirty, then you might as well hand yourself over to Leonard now—you hear me?!" Elizabeth realised that her voice had escalated by the end of her monologue.

"Don't shout, Elizabeth, it's unnecessary," Beckett said mildly, seeming unaffected by her speech. Elizabeth realized that if she had to take this for much longer, her head would probably actually _explode_.

Beckett had always had that uncanny ability to drive her completely and utterly bonkers in the space of two and a half minutes. He was conceited, selfish, arrogant and an overall ass-headed weasel. And she also had no reason to trust him—he had cuffed her to him and been about to hand her over to Leonard, for Christ's sake.

She remembered something, at this point. When Beckett had cuffed her, and had been planning on handing her over to the government—when they had escaped, after all of the fighting, she had told him that she was going to leave. She had told him that she was taking her baby and they were going to get _out_ of there. She had been planning on never having to see him ever again.

Sure, she'd been angry back then, but her decision still stood, surely? Of course, the dragoons had raided that night, and Beckett had chosen to save her life at the risk of her own, so she'd felt... obliged to help him. Even though it meant risking her life. She didn't really know for sure what had made her do such a thing—it had seemed ridiculous, but at the same time, she supposed... she was just too much of a good person, damn it! Too morally obliged to make sure Beckett didn't go insane and Audrey didn't die...

Uh...

So, there were two major failures there. But she tried her best. And she could hardly walk out on him the day his mother died—and then he had come up with the idea of this little hideaway here, and it had sounded safe so she had come along. She wanted to leave. Break out of this. She couldn't _afford_ to get caught up in many more escapades with Beckett. It was dangerous—for her and William both.

She looked towards Beckett now, looking a tad sulky, pulling a strand of fringe. He let go, and it twanged back up into a curl. Somehow, this made Elizabeth realize that she couldn't just leave Beckett on his own. She just... couldn't!

Perhaps there was someone else she could dump him on? But what allies did she have? Her old friends in Port Royale—not a chance. The Brethren Court were a promised ally of hers; but they would never in a thousand years help her with Cutler Beckett. In fact, they may well disown her, so to speak. Perhaps if she pretended that Beckett was someone else? Would Beckett even play ball to that one? He despised the pirates as much as they despised him, after all.

What about Jack? Jack Sparrow, and his crew—no, wait, on his visit, he'd said about Barbossa stealing his ship. And how on earth would she find him anyway? And he detested Beckett; just as Beckett detested him.

So it was all a wasted idea... or perhaps it wasn't. Because it was this trail of thought that led her to think about where Beckett would be safe. Where did the redcoats dare not enter? Where did pirates frequent, with no need to follow any rules? Where was it easy to skulk in the shadows, unseen by all? Where did those shunned and shamed by society head to? Where would they be safe from Leonard?

Why... Tortuga, of course.

----------

"Elizabeth?" Beckett called into her ear—she jerked from her long train of thought, and blinked at him.

"I am going to teach you everything I know about cooking," Elizabeth said to him, folding her arms, "So that you can cook by yourself. Alright?" Beckett grudgingly nodded. "I feel like I'm teaching a three year old!"

"No doubt that everything you know about cooking can be summed up in about four sentences," Beckett muttered, running a finger along the dark wood of the table and frowning at the grey lining of dust on his fingertip. Elizabeth had to agree, really; she was positively amateur at cookery... but she wasn't eating raw lamb, and that was final. She steered Beckett back towards the kitchen, taking the lamb along as well.

"Time for a cookery lesson," she said, sniffily.

----------

Two hours later, they both sat just outside the kitchen, looking somewhat dejected.

"And you're supposed to be the _good_ cook," Beckett muttered. "Not even _I_ started a fire..."

"You didn't even try!" Elizabeth exclaimed, folding her arms.

"Yes—so what does this say about you?" Beckett smirked, "That you shouldn't even _attempt_ cookery."

"Oh, shut up," Elizabeth snapped, sighing.

"You didn't look at the desert," Beckett said idly, "The one that I made."

"I was rather afraid of what I would see," Elizabeth said with a grin. Beckett folded his legs and picked at the dust-ridden carpet beneath them.

"So was I, at first," Beckett said airily, "You bought the cheaper flour, so I wasn't sure it would rise properly... and the eggs were quite small, so I think it came out a little bit heavy..." Elizabeth opened her mouth, and closed it again, unsure if he was pulling her leg or not. He just smiled his serene, all-knowing smile. She got to her feel, strode to the main table, and pulled up the cover of the desert.

In the place of the gone-off fruit or the rock-hard biscuits that she had expected to be, there was a beautifully made little cake, spongy and delectable, with the jam that she had bought earlier spread on a middle layer, and a sprinkle of pure white sugar over the top. This was all topped off with a few blobs of cream, too. It wasn't the best cake she had ever seen—it had that made-by-a-proud-ten-year-old-for-his-grandmother quality to it—but it still looked absolutely delicious compared to the junk that they had been eating recently.

"Please... don't tell me you made this," Elizabeth said heavily.

"Alright, I wont... but I did," Beckett smirked at her, and Elizabeth got that familiar urge to throw the nearest object to hand at his head with as much force as possible.

"All this time, you knew how to cook, and you didn't _tell_ me?!" Elizabeth demanded.

"No need to shout now, you'll scare Junior," Beckett said. He was still sitting cross-legged on the floor, and he waved through the table and chair legs to baby William, who was gurgling happily in his little cushion palace.

"Beckett... _why_ would you do that?" Elizabeth asked him.

"It's all about image... I'm sure you understand," Beckett said offhandedly, "And anyway, now that you know that I taught myself to cook, you'll probably make me do _all_ of he cooking," he sighed.

"Too right I am!" Elizabeth huffed, "On the island—in the barns—_I've_ had to do _all_ of the cooking, and you... you... how do you know how to cook?!" She couldn't believe it. She had just spent two hours trying to 'teach' Beckett to cook, and all the while... all the while, he'd been some sort of secret master chef!

"Like I said... I taught myself," Beckett shrugged, "It's good to excel in all types of skills. When being brilliant at everything else began to bore me, I decided I might as well try it. That and the fact that my mother went through cycles of motherliness, at the lowest of which she would barely remember my name, and at the peaks she would press-gang me into all sorts of 'quality' time as a child," he yawned.

"What does that mean?" Elizabeth asked with a frown.

"My mother was a very special person," Beckett said, resting his head on the wall behind him, "She would do something terrible, usually spending the night with someone who wasn't my father, and then the guilt would compel her to follow me around everywhere, making sure I was alright, and wanting to spend time with me and suchlike—riding, baking, whatever she felt like. As a child, I felt it rude to refuse, let alone the fact that I spent hardly time with her anyway. She would buy me things, want to know my opinion on everything, and so on. After a while, the novelty would wear off, until we were barely talking again... and then she would do something else horrible," he spoke surprisingly lightly.

"I... I see. I think I see," Elizabeth said blankly. At least he was talking more openly about his mother now. _Is it any surprise he turned out the way he did?_ Elizabeth thought to herself, _his entire family are covertly mad..._

"You can eat the cake," Beckett said, changing the subject quickly. "I'm not hungry."

"You've poisoned it, haven't you?"

"What? Oh, please..."

"So, where do you keep the cyanide? Next to the breadbin, perhaps?"

"It isn't poisoned, Elizabeth."

"Oh, yes?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm not sure I believe you." Elizabeth couldn't stop the grin from coming to her face, at this point. Beckett rolled his eyes.

"Elizabeth. The cake either goes in your mouth, or it gets smashed over your head..."

* * *

**NB:** Ah, I was wondering what you would all think about the new crackers Beckett. Don't worry, he's just a little unsteady... heh heh. This chapter was strangely cooking-orientated; it wasn't going to be that long, but I just can't resist the Beckett-Elizabeth banter... see you next update, I'm off carol singing. With a bad throat. What jollies! 

Extract from the next chapter:_ "I have an idea," Elizabeth said cautiously, "But I don't think you're going to like it."_


	36. Harmony

THIRTY-SIX: Harmony

The light, echoing music amused William no end. He smiled and tilted his head left and right, reaching out to touch the harp. Elizabeth plucked on a string again, and William reached out and brushed his hand across a few—there were some more notes, mixing rather horribly, but William was happy in any case.

Elizabeth wondered why someone such as Cutler Beckett would want a music room. This manor seemed to have a room for everything—back at her old manor in England, they had had a music room, for her mother used to play the flute; and every instrument must have accompaniment. Once she'd died, however, the room had become uninhabited; a few times, her father had tried to convince her to learn the flute, but she refused to yield, and cheeked the flute teacher and dropped her flute down the stairs obstinately.

She wished, sometimes, that she had been a tad less stubborn as a child. To know how to play the flute would have been nice, now—a talent of some sort. Apparently, her mother had been rather good at it. Elizabeth knew little of her mother, but she didn't let it get to her—it was better, somehow, that she hadn't known her mother that well when she'd died. She'd only been three or four.

Her father's death, on the other hand... her fingers tensed slightly, and the soft notes hardened somewhat, much to William's fascination. She knew that as much as Beckett despised the whole opening-up-and-talking thing, she would have to eventually confront him about that as well. It wore on her; she was, at times, pretty certain that he had forgotten—it slipped her own mind sometimes, too. But the thought of Beckett being responsible for her father's death made her stomach clench in rage.

Rage and hate. And that brought her to thoughts of ditching him; stealing some money, and sneaking out in the night, her and William. But then she would think of him in the asylum, defeated, like a once-magnificent lion stuck in a cage, and she couldn't bring herself to do it. Damn her conscience!

Spying a section of woodwind instruments, left on dusty velvet cushions, she walked over and began searching for a flute—until, at last, she found one. Many, in fact, of different sizes. Holding William uncomfortably in one arm, she picked up one that she remembered being of a similar size to the one that she had once owned. She wiped some of the dust off on a shirt.

She glanced around for a place to put William down, and found Beckett at the door, his hand resting on the frame, looking around the room as if in disbelief. Elizabeth tried to squash the feelings regarding her father, and even attempted a smile.

"I'd almost forgotten about this room," Beckett said, stepping in. He looked at the flute in Elizabeth's hands. "Do you play?" He asked.

"Not really," Elizabeth said with a shake of her head, "I used to have lessons... once. A long time ago. What about you?" Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, "Any more hidden talents?" Beckett pursed his lips.

"It was one cake, Elizabeth," Beckett said, "And yes, I do play an instrument." Elizabeth waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. "Pass Junior over here... I want to hear you having a go at the flute," Beckett smirked as he held out his arms. Elizabeth was against the idea for a moment—but then decided that there couldn't be any harm in it.

"I'm no good," Elizabeth sighed, "I hated those lessons," she was about to go on to mention her father, but stopped herself. She didn't want things getting awkward right now. She would bring her father up—someday.

For a moment, Elizabeth was clueless as to even how to _hold_ the thing; then a memory erupted from nowhere; her teacher, pushing spectacles up his nose, trying to explain things to a bossy, stubborn young Elizabeth. It had to be pressed underneath the lower part of her lip, with the first finger of her left hand and her thumb of the other, and she had to smile slightly to draw the corners of her mouth upwards. Beckett tilted his head back and watched, William in his arms.

She had to remember not to squeeze too tightly—she had to remember to use the pads of her fingers, not the tips—she had to remember an awful lot of things. Her brows furrowed slightly in concentration, and she corrected her posture, making sure that her shoulders were above her hips. She briefly paused, and then tried blowing a note.

The flute made no sound for a moment, and then let loose a squeal. Beckett smirked slightly, and she blew again, harder this time, much too hard—a god-awful shriek was emitted, and William wriggled and threw his limbs out, Beckett having to pause in his smirking to readjust their positions.

Elizabeth dropped the flute away from her mouth with a sigh, shaking her head.

"I can't do it. I was never good at playing the flute," she said desolately.

"Maybe there was some dust clogging it up," Beckett suggested helpfully. Elizabeth was more bowled over by this almost-kind tone than anything else... Beckett wasn't one to make excuses for her. She took William back off of him.

"I think I can guess what you play," Elizabeth said, nodding. Beckett raised an eyebrow. "It's the harpsichord, isn't it?"

"Spinet, actually," Beckett said, following her gaze to said spinet, "How did you know?"

"Spinets, harpsichords... there's no difference," Elizabeth said vaguely, "And I knew because I know you. It's there, in the middle of the room, looking grand and centre of attention. What other instrument could it be?" She smirked, looking towards the bentside spinet standing proudly in the middle of the room. It was a lovely instrument—probably costing more then triple any other instrument in the room—made of a dark red wood, with ivory keys, the top propped open, and the compulsory thick layer of dust covering it.

"I suppose you're right," Beckett said, wandering up to it and wiping some dust from the edge with a small frown.

"I thought a harpsichord was a woman's instrument?" Elizabeth asked with a sneer.

"It's a spinet!" Beckett said indignantly.

"Oh, alright then..." Elizabeth said with a snicker. Beckett frowned, and dusted the keys off a little.

"No doubt it's out of tune now," he muttered, bringing one hand down to the high end of the spinet and playing a quick, tinkling little tune; he made it seem impossibly easy. William gurgled delightedly in Elizabeth's arms, and reached his arms out towards the spinet. _I want a go!_

Elizabeth brought William towards the spinet, and let him touch the keys. Clumsily, he pressed about three down at a time with his hand and wrist, and the spinet emitted notes that were strange and warped. It didn't matter to William, though—he continued to bash they keys with delight. Beckett was looking at William now; Elizabeth often noticed Beckett giving her son these quick, odd looks.

"When Will comes back, I'll be ten years older then him... do you think he'll still love me?" Elizabeth suddenly asked.

"No," Beckett replied, "He'll ditch you for someone more young and attractive and able to carry children by the second week of his return." Elizabeth stared at him.

"Are you joking, or do you honestly think that that will make me feel better?" She demanded. To be honest, she wasn't really worried about it—she just brought Will up whenever Beckett looked at William like that. To remind him that the baby _had_ a father. And it was not _him_.

"Why _wouldn't_ you feel better? Then you'll be free of that ridiculous boy," Beckett said, running a hand along the upper scale one last time and then finishing. He moved away from the harpsichord—er, spinet—and wandered towards the door. "We should go," he said. Elizabeth was confused. She picked William up, away from the spinet, and walked towards the door.

"What do you mean?" She asked him.

"We should leave this place. There isn't anything left for us here, and I'm certain that Leonard is going out of his mind searching for us. Descriptions could circulate—he could come across some old deeds leading here, or something," Beckett pursed his lips, "I just don't know where to go..."

"I have an idea," Elizabeth said cautiously, "But I don't think you're going to like it."

"Well, if it's an idea of yours, then that's a given," Beckett said dismissively, as they both walked down the corridor, and ended up in the main hallway, next to the front door. "You have this knack for... oh, no they didn't," Beckett suddenly became distracted and stalked off across the marble tiles of the main hallway, and stood with his hands on his hips, looking downwards.

"Er, Beckett?" Elizabeth called from somewhere behind him.

"Look! Look at it!" He gestured to the ground, looking disgusted, "The servants stole... they stole the _floor_! How low can you get?!" Elizabeth looked and saw that, indeed, a few of the marble slabs had been taken.

"Yes, anyway, Beckett," Elizabeth coughed politely, "We need to talk about this idea. Drawing room, shall we?" She turned towards the door that she had come to know as the one that led to the drawing room—she had managed to learn to navigate her way around the manor... sort of. It was sometimes hard going, though.

So, they both walked in, and Elizabeth settled down on a straight-backed chair that was next to a small table, and gestured for him to sit opposite her. Elizabeth cradled William in her arms, and Beckett sat down on the chair that Elizabeth had motioned to.

"What is this grand idea of yours, then?" Beckett asked.

"Right... before I say it... you have to promise me that you'll hear me out. Because I have a feeling that you'll just cut me off and not let me explain," Elizabeth sighed. Beckett blinked at her.

"You really know how to sell these things, don't you?" he asked.

"Of course," Elizabeth grinned, " Anyway, my idea... is that we head... to Tortuga." She looked at him. He looked at her.

"Is the next thing out of your mouth going to be, 'before passing it to somewhere else'?" he asked.

"Uh, no. I mean that we head to Tortuga and stay there."

"In that case... absolutely not. Try again."

* * *

**NB:** And now, the musical chapter! Huh, themes keep on appearing everywhere, now. Next chapter is somewhat dialogue-heavy, heh. Thanks muchly for reviews!

Extract from the next chapter:_ "You're making it sound as if we used to be lovers of some description," Beckett retorted scornfully._


	37. Communication

THIRTY-SEVEN: Communication

"It's perfectly sensible!" Elizabeth argued.

"Elizabeth. Over the last few weeks, I have been beginning to doubt whether you are even _capable_ of rational thought. Tortuga is just... no. I am _not_ going there," Beckett shook his head and leaned back in his chair, his arms folded.

"But you're still going to listen to me, aren't you?" Elizabeth asked. Reluctantly, Beckett nodded. "Tortuga is a really obvious choice," Elizabeth began, only to be interrupted by a disbelieving noise from Beckett. She glared at him, and carried on, "Tortuga is a really obvious choice, _because_ there you will be safe from the redcoats, the Company, everything. It's illegal, filthy and downright dangerous; but it might just be the best place for us to go." She looked at him seriously.

"Oh, really? Because I rather enjoy having all of my limbs attached, thank you," Beckett rolled his eyes, "They're hardly going to welcome me with open arms over there, are they?"

"I doubt that anyone there will recognize you," Elizabeth insisted, "And anyway, they probably think that you're a pirate hero now. A betrayer of the Company. Someone who has helped piratekind greatly." She smirked at Beckett's expression.

"I hate pirates," Beckett muttered.

"I know that," Elizabeth rolled her eyes, "But there's no choice in the matter—you know that it makes sense! And it's not for ever..." she sighed, "We're not going to stay in Tortuga for ever. But it'll be safe there; and after Tortuga we can... we can..." Elizabeth shrugged helplessly.

"Right. And I presume that we will be running into some old acquaintances of yours during out little excursion?" Beckett asked, bad-naturedly.

"Perhaps," Elizabeth looked downwards, deciding not to mention that it was one of her plans, "The Brethren Court remain an ally of mine, especially the new Lord of the South China Sea, Tai Huang, whom I gave my position to," she smiled, feeling a touch sad at having to give up her post, though she had known that it was for the best, "Perhaps we could head to Singapore afterwards..."

"The one place nearly as bad as Tortuga, and you had to mention it," Beckett sighed, "Actually, there are two places nearly as bad as Tortuga. One of them is Singapore—the other one, that god-forsaken island of yours..."

"Nothing was wrong with it," Elizabeth said angrily, "Until you came along!"

"Hmm. Well, I hated it. Being stuck there was simply hellish," Beckett leaned back in his chair, "So that's your plan? Head to Tortuga, perhaps bag a ride to Singapore and meet up with your old pirate buddies, who—by the way—want to murder me, and doubtlessly would be trying to do so right now, if not for the fact that they believe me to be already dead?"

"Well... yes," Elizabeth sighed, "I was trying to keep this out of the conversation, but I was also hoping for the help of... Jack Sparrow. Captain."

"I should have guessed," Beckett said with a sigh.

"Why do you hate him so much?" Elizabeth asked, "I mean... you two have some sort of past, that I know..."

"You're making it sound as if we used to be lovers of some description," Beckett retorted scornfully. Elizabeth raised her eyebrows—knowing Jack, the notion wasn't entirely impossible. "You were saying?" Beckett asked, moving the subject on.

"Old flame or not," Elizabeth grinned at his expression, which she had been expecting, "I hear that you used to be friends, at least?"

"Associates," Beckett corrected her.

"Hmm," Elizabeth simply replied.

"Friendship is really out of the question, after we spent five years or so trying to kill each other," Beckett muttered.

"But back when you were still a lord, bossing us all around..." Elizabeth sighed, "You were making deals left, right and centre. Jack was involved in that. He was, in a way, on your side... he ended up giving you the compass, and the means to almost destroying us, after all."

"I'm a strategist, Elizabeth," Beckett raised an eyebrow, "Manipulating someone is not the same as being their ally, or their... _friend_."

"I suppose so," Elizabeth sighed, "If forced to, would you work with Jack?" She looked at him seriously, "A little bit like how _we_ ended up working together."

"There would have been mass carnage. And Sparrow wouldn't have missed when he shot at me," Beckett said derisively, "And he also wouldn't be pregnant, thus acting outrageous. I would probably be dead the second he realized I was alive." He pursed his lips.

"Do you think so?" Elizabeth frowned, "I've always gotten the impression that you... I don't know... _enjoy_ messing each other around."

"You could say that," Beckett said, his lips curving into a small smile for a moment, before his expression turned stony once more, "But that doesn't make our loathing for each other any less real. I hate him, and he hates me. We are much like... opposites. He completely lacks discipline, for a start. No wonder he didn't last long in the Company."

"Are you ever going to _explain_ his time with the Company?" Elizabeth asked, as William began to doze off in her arms. She had almost forgotten that he was there.

"I'd prefer not to—but to put it briefly, Sparrow once worked for the East India Trading Company as my lieutenant," Beckett tapped a finger idly on the table between them, "He got far, considering that his father was a pirate and his mother a gypsy. It just goes to show, really... then again, Sparrow seems to have that knack of being extremely _lucky_."

"Lucky, eh?" Elizabeth couldn't help but smirk slightly, "Did you ever consider that it may have been skill?"

"No," Beckett said bluntly, "That thought never crossed my mind. _Anyway_, one day Sparrow got the order to bring back cargo from Africa—a cargo of slaves. Instead of doing as ordered, he freed them, and thus I branded him a pirate and had his beloved vessel, the _Wicked Wench_ sunk."

"The _Wicked Wench_... that was the one he asked Davy Jones to raise from the bottom of the ocean, wasn't it? And he renamed her, and so the _Pearl_ was born..." Elizabeth nodded, glad that she knew more now. She and Jack hadn't had much time for chitchat.

"Indeed," Beckett raised an eyebrow, "Though 'born' is a little, hmm, poetic..."

"But why did Jack not want to bring those slaves? I don't understand," Elizabeth frowned, she herself didn't believe in slavery, but she couldn't imagine Jack giving two hoots about what he was ferrying.

"He felt it against his morals," Beckett scoffed, "He was too _good_."

"Unlike you," Elizabeth sighed.

"Yes. Very much unlike me," Beckett said frankly, "I'm not a good person, I'm clever enough to know it, and I don't really plan on changing," he sneered slightly at this point, "Sparrow stamps around pretending to be the big bad pirate, but really, do you think the reason he drinks rum is because he _likes_ it?"

"Of course," Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, "I've never met a man more partial to rum."

"Rum—or alcohol of any sort, really—helps a good man to do bad things," Beckett idly flicked some dust from the faded tablecloth, "Of course, he possibly also became alcoholic after consuming so much of the stuff."

"You know that he could help us, though, Beckett," Elizabeth leaned forwards, "He's an intelligent man, no matter how much he may act otherwise."

"He is an intelligent man," Beckett agreed, "It's wasted on him, really..."

Elizabeth sighed. Beckett was already sniping at Jack, and they hadn't even begun their journey to Tortuga yet. This was not going to be fun. And Jack—a good man? Yes, Elizabeth had spent most of her time knowing him convinced of it, but then again... well, how would _Beckett_ of all people know the slightest thing about Jack, exactly? Jack may not be an entirely bad man, and gosh, she did wish he would be a better man sometimes, but he wasn't _entirely_ good, either.

"We are going to Tortuga, Beckett," Elizabeth said, leaning towards him, "We can't stay where redcoats frequent, and we need help! _You _need help..." she pressed her lips together as Beckett shot her a horrified look, "You're not well!"

"_What_? Oh, don't _you_ jump the 'he's a nutter' bandwagon, please," Beckett shook his head, "What are you suggesting by 'help'? Locking me up in another asylum, perhaps? I'm fine, Elizabeth, I just... I was just feeling a little unsteady. I'm perfectly alright."

"You haven't been acting... _yourself_ recently," Elizabeth said cautiously, "I just think we could get it, well, seen to."

"By who?" Beckett narrowed his eyes, "A witch-doctor? I doubt that there are any people with any sort of medical expertise residing in a hole like Tortuga. And I don't _need_ help," Beckett added quickly, "You, as usual, are overreacting."

"You'd be surprised at the people you can find in Tortuga. Also...you held a gun to my head because you thought I was going to call you crazy!" Elizabeth exclaimed.

"Well, you _were_ going to call me crazy!" Beckett looked wounded, "You have no idea about the mental torture that being stuck in that asylum was. It can do things to you. I was just... on edge. I _am_ sorry, Elizabeth," he shrugged, and then looked at her slyly.

_Probably wondering whether I'm going to buy his apology or not,_ Elizabeth realized.

"Look... Cutler..." Elizabeth sighed, "_If_ we were to get help, it would be for your own good. To _help_ you, see?" _I also don't want an insane Cutler Beckett as my companion for this possibly life-threatening journey,_ Elizabeth thought to herself.

"I don't need 'help'," Beckett drummed his fingers on the table, "And that is final."

"Alright," Elizabeth said weakly. He'd been acting a little more like himself just recently, so she supposed that that was good. Perhaps he was right, perhaps he'd just been a little stressed beforehand. She leaned back. "As for Tortuga... consider it, will you? I know you're the 'brainy one' of the operation, but just... just consider it." Beckett looked at her.

"I will," he said, much to her surprise, "It does make sense, sort of, I _suppose_..."

* * *

**NB:** Being an utter moron, I sent the wrong chapter to my beta and ended up... well, yes. Anyway. Sorry for the sketchiness with updating, christmas business and all that. Hopefully it'll become reliable again soon. Lots of Jack Sparrow mentioned in this chapter... eh!

Extract from the next chapter:_"By 'things like that' I suppose you mean... 'Waah! You killed my daddy!'" Beckett said, waving an arm dramatically_.


	38. Flight

THIRTY-EIGHT: Flight

They did end up heading to Tortuga.

Beckett looked around the dusty old manor one last time before leaving. He wasn't one for sentiments, but he realized that the last couple of days were probably the last time he was ever going to live in a place as luxurious as this. The thought was worrying—he didn't want to end up holed in some inn for the rest of his life. Who knew where life would take him, though?

Lord Leonard. Ah—he had some unfinished business with that man. It wasn't entirely because of his mother's death... in fact, Beckett was almost embarrassed at the emotion he'd shown there. If it had just been he and his mother, then it would have all been hunky-dory as she would have popped her clogs and never been able to tell anyone about his funny five minutes—his weepy moment. Alright, so he hadn't actually cried, but it had been enough.

The asylum had messed him up a tiny bit. Beckett knew this, now; he had been acting irrational, which was something that he _never_ did. But he'd just been slightly unsteady on his feet; he wasn't _mad_. Elizabeth was just being quick to jump to conclusions...

Elizabeth watched with a concerned look on her face as Beckett strode past the room she was in, down the corridor, muttering all the while. He was _talking to himself._ If that wasn't a sign of madness, what was? She remembered that he used to do it on the island, too, sometimes. Maybe this strange behaviour wasn't down to the asylum. Maybe it went all the way back to his first 'death'.

Sighing, she shook her head. Beckett was raking all of his money out of the various safes in the manor. She could barely believe it—diamond necklaces, rolls of silk, gold-encrusted goblets; it was like something from a novel!

"But what on earth would you want a necklace for?" Elizabeth asked him, blinking. He shrugged.

"I suppose that when you have as much money as me, you don't need a reason," he said with a smirk. Soon, they had a small fortune at their disposal. They each had a bag to carry; the money was shared out between them, in so many jingling drawstring bags. Soon, they were ready to leave.

They'd planned it out in Beckett's office—they'd taken a map of their side of Jamaica, and were using it to navigate. They were going to head further eastwards away from Port Royale, towards Bull Bay, and then find some sort of small docking village and hitch a ride on a boat from there. As Port Royale was placed on a long, extended stretch of land, surrounding Kingston Harbour (true say), it would be silly to leave the Kingston area all together, but getting far away from Port Royale would be good.

Getting anywhere on foot seemed to be a long and arduous task, so Beckett and Elizabeth decided to purchase horses for themselves a few towns along. Stagecoaches followed main roads, and were too risky in any case, and there didn't seem another choice in the matter. They considered riding all the way down to Rockfort, but then decided that it was too big a town.

Riding with baby William was by no means easy—Elizabeth had considered that she share a horse with Beckett and held William, but decided against it almost immediately; she simply felt it would be a bad idea. She didn't trust Beckett that much, and was pretty much convinced that he was a wee bit insane.

In the end, she strapped William to her front in a small sling-type thing; it was fastened tightly, but she was scared out of her mind that it would drop, though these fears soon vanished. William didn't seem to mind—in fact, he was positively overjoyed at the new experience.

"I can't believe I'm actually going towards Tortuga of my own free will," Beckett sighed, putting his hands behind his head and facing away from her, a tad bad-naturedly. They'd been travelling for four days now, and were spending yet another night in a barn. Inns were nice and all, but they couldn't be bothered with the fuss that day, and it was dark.

Elizabeth didn't really acknowledge his grumbling, she simply continued trying to get William to eat solid food. She had a sort of pureed applesauce, which was apparently good for 'weaning' babies, so to speak. The spoon wasn't working so well, so she dipped her finger in the sauce and tried making little William suck from that—so far, it was working, though at her first try he had pulled the strangest of faces.

"Good boy," Elizabeth murmured, stroking his forehead. Beckett turned towards her, frowning. Then he seemed to notice that she had been talking to William.

"What're you doing?" He asked.

"Getting William on solid foods," Elizabeth said, "Or more on solid foods, anyway." William was reaching that stage where, though still dependent on his mother, the very beginning of his independence was coming, and soon he would be much easier to look after—if that was saying much. Beckett merely gave her a blank look. Babies were not his forte. "And then, you can help to look after him more," Elizabeth smiled slightly, "I love him, but he can be ever so fussy."

"Cheers," Beckett said in a tone that suggested that disembowelling himself with a knitting needle was higher on his list of things to do then looking after baby William. However, Elizabeth knew that he was lying—well, sort of knew, anyway.

"Come sit," Elizabeth said, gesturing to the hay next to her. Beckett immediately seemed faintly suspicious, but warily made his way over to her anyway.

"What?" he asked. Elizabeth sighed.

"Will we never just have a nice talk?" Elizabeth asked. Beckett shot her a contemptuous look. "Not about things like that," Elizabeth said quickly. Beckett simply rolled his eyes. "Well... maybe about things like that."

"By 'things like that' I suppose you mean... 'Waah! You killed my daddy!'" Beckett said, waving an arm dramatically. Elizabeth took a deep breath.

"You did kill him," she said, evenly, "My father. The only member of my family still alive. I loved him, Beckett, and you... you..." she shook her head, trying not to get too emotional, "Aren't you ever going to apologize for that?"

"You've made me apologize before," Beckett said briskly.

"And now I know that that was acting," Elizabeth glared at him. Beckett fiddled with a cuff idly. He had used parts of his wealth to purchase some nicer clothes for both he and Elizabeth—travelling clothes, so to speak. Their horses were both tethered somewhere further up the barn, probably taking advantage of all of the free hay—Beckett and Elizabeth had become well used to breaking into barns, now.

"Listen, Elizabeth," Beckett settled back, finally allowing himself to relax slightly, "As the newest member of the orphans club, I can tell you that you don't have it too bad."

"Is your father dead, too?" Elizabeth asked. Surely, if Beckett's own father was dead, he wouldn't be as callous as to murder someone else's father?

"Yes," Beckett said, "He apparently went down with his ship not so long after my apparent demise. Newspapers dramatically intoned that he had died 'of a broken heart'." He'd been doing research on it. "As for my mother, well... you saw."

"I..." Elizabeth paused, uncomfortably. "I know that what you went through was bad, but that doesn't forgive your actions by any means," she finally said.

"My mother," Beckett said, "She died, covered in her own blood, in the back streets of Port Royale, lying in a grimy alleyway after being shot in the back." Elizabeth tried to interrupt, but Beckett didn't let her. "She never received a funeral; she died with a woman she didn't really know and a son whom she had never really gotten on with by her side. She was still as naive as the day she was born on the day of her death; that is because she lived a life being gently handled and cared for by those around her. It was at the end that it all went wrong." He looked at her. "Do you want more dramatics, or should I stop now?"

"You don't have to stop now," Elizabeth said. Carefully, almost unwillingly, she put a hand on his shoulder. "Let it all out."

"Oh, _please_," Beckett rolled his eyes, "You know that me and my mother didn't get on. We always rubbed each other up the wrong way. And she was bound to die someday—I just wasn't ready on that particular day, that's all." He picked up her hand from his shoulder and dropped it back to her side.

"You don't have to keep your emotions trapped inside you any more, though," Elizabeth insisted, "You're away from all of the upper-class snobbery, the facades and lies—you can just be you, now," she looked at him. What she had just uttered was a little bit of a cliché, but I can hardly help that, can I?

"Elizabeth," Beckett said, slowly, as if spelling it out for her, "This _is_ me."

"No, I don't mean the fake personalityless face that you put on for work," William had long since dozed off in her arms now, and Elizabeth held him to her chest, "You're far away from that now, and you're never going back. Don't you understand?"

"Personalityless? That is not only a nonexistent word, but also completely redundant," Beckett pursed his lips, "I imagine that you could say a great deal about my personality right about now—and keeping my emotions under wraps is a _part_ of that. That _is_ my personality. Do you get it? Or do you need me to explain further?" There was a roll of the eyes, here. "Just because everyone else you've ever met wears their characters on their sleeves, bland as you like, doesn't mean I have to be like them. Would you and I be friends if I were like everyone else?"

Elizabeth opened and closed her mouth. Partly at the surprise of being referred to as a 'friend' of Beckett's, and partly out of the realization that had come with his words. She'd always imagined him wearing a cold, impersonal face to mask his personality. But that wasn't right at all.

The cold, impersonal face was his real face. Ruthless, cunning, untrustworthy and manipulative—that was _him_. Not a cover-up. Not a smokescreen. In a way, he had one of the most brutally honest personalities she knew. He didn't soften the blow with fake smiles. He wasn't a good person; he himself had said so. She looked at him for another moment, before speaking.

"Everyone has the ability to do something good," she said, "Just not everyone has the will."

"True," Beckett said indifferently, "I'm one of those." Then he suddenly seemed to realize that he had just accidentally gotten engaged in one of Elizabeth's much-wanted 'heart-to-heart- conversations. He pulled a face, and stood up. "I'm going to sleep."

Elizabeth watched him go with a thoughtful expression on her face.

_So use that ability,_ she thought, almost angrily, _do something good, you fool! Do something really, honestly good for others. And then I'll know you're sorry. And then we could be _real_ friends, not just... two outlaws foisted with each other._

However, we all know that the day Cutler Beckett does something heroically and thoughtlessly good is one far, far away...

* * *

**NB:** Don't we just! Thanks to all readers for bearing with me. xD Trouble ahead...?

Extract from the next chapter: _"I'm dead," Beckett shrugged exaggeratedly, "I'm dead already."_


	39. Stowaways

THIRTY-NINE: Stowaways

Elizabeth sighed, rolling her neck backwards, working out a kink that simply would not go away. She was also not looking forwards to the next leg of their journey... stowing away. Now that could be a problem, with a baby too.

"Why don't we just pay for passage to Tortuga?" Elizabeth asked. Beckett shot her a look that told her to shut up. He didn't even need to say it any more—she could just tell from those looks that he wanted her mouth to close.

"It will get us noticed. Honest merchants don't go to places like Tortuga. So, we'll have to hitch a ride on a pirate ship." He looked around the quay. "I'm sure there's a ship somewhere here that at least slightly resembles a pirate ship." Elizabeth glanced around; a couple did look promising.

"I've hitched a ride to Tortuga before," Elizabeth smiled somewhat wistfully, remembering back in the day. Her adventures with Jack Sparrow, James Norrington, and her beloved Will. Beckett looked disapprovingly at her for a moment. You would not think that those times would bring back happy memories—but now that it was over, it had seemed like great fun. Things were so much of a scramble now; though she supposed that she would be looking back on these times one day with a smile, too. She hoped so, in any case.

"Well. That's just wonderful to know," Beckett rolled his eyes, "Now, come along, Elizabeth. The _Pipsqueak _over there looks promising..."

"Who names their ship 'Pipsqueak'?" Elizabeth asked, frowning.

"Pirates," Beckett smiled, "Which is just what we want, isn't it?" He gently took a hold of her, and steered her by her elbow down the harbour, towards the ship. There were a few tattooed, deadlocked men on there, speaking in a foreign language. It seemed promising as a pirate ship.

----------

"This isn't very good," Elizabeth said with a frown, "How do we even know they're headed to Tortuga?"

"Well, if they're pirates—which I suspect strongly—then they will undoubtedly stop to port there. In fact, I don't know why they even bothered to stop here; Tortuga is quite nearby." Beckett pursed his lips, "It's not reliable, but the worst that could happen is that we're caught by pirates... and they're hardly likely to hand us over to Leonard, are they?"

"I don't know," Elizabeth said uneasily, "We do have a pretty big price tag on our head."

"As an ex-Pirate King, surely you are given _some_ sort of respect?" Beckett asked, blinking. He'd been surprised that Elizabeth had strongly declined his idea of simply asking for a ride, as she had been the King.

"It doesn't work like that with pirates, Beckett," she sighed, "They're not all so well-informed with each other. The younger ones probably don't even know about the existence of the Brethren Court," she shook her head with a slightly stern air. Beckett crossed his legs and looked around him.

They were now comfortably stationed in the brig of the _Pipsqueak_. Being hidden was not as hard as they had first thought—pirates rarely wandered into the brig, and if they did, it was to reach the supplies of rum nearby. They were hidden, right at the back, near a tangle of nets, spare sails and coils of rope. It was dark and dingy, but secluded, which was exactly what they needed. Pirates were not so keen on cleanliness as the navy. Beckett noted this with distaste.

Travelling had gone without a hitch—mostly. Beckett was being searched for, of course, but descriptions circulating were now of Beckett and 'a young man, quite skinny and slight, fair skin'. This, apparently, was Elizabeth. As long as he tagged along, pretending to be William's father, nobody so much as suspected.

William was a great advantage; as long as he had 'family' to vouch for him, who could suspect? Of course, he kept his face down and his eyes averted too, but in the long run, people simply didn't think. After all, you wouldn't connect a wanted criminal who could _possibly_ have a male accomplice to a man with his wife and child, would you? Of course not. Leonard wouldn't know how Beckett conjured a woman and baby to help him out of thin air—as far as he was concerned, Beckett had no allies, apart from this mysterious 'man'.

It had been about three weeks since they'd left his manor, and things had not changed too much. William had learned to roll over, Elizabeth had begun being a little bit meaner to Beckett, and Beckett had taken to pouting a lot more then usual. But, all in all, things were not so different.

"What're we going to do once we get to Tortuga?" Beckett asked, leaning back.

"Look for Jack, or find out where my crew are," Elizabeth said with a nod. By 'her crew' she meant, of course, part of her Singaporean bunch. She had given her place as Pirate Lord to Tai Huang, but she had his loyalty, and he had said that he was in her debt for her kindness; and he knew that she was a good pirate (in her own opinion, which counted pretty much more then anything else when you're a pirate), she was certain that he would be happy to make her the captain of her own ship; or perhaps just give him a place to stay on his own ship.

Also, though she didn't mention it, she planned on finding some sort of help for Beckett. Just... just in case. She felt a little guilty, and god knows, she wasn't looking forwards to forcing him into the practice of a Tortugan doctor; she could imagine him clinging to the doorway whilst she pulled on his legs, trying to force him in. But she would have to. Just in case.

"Why are we looking for Sparrow?" Beckett demanded, narrowing his eyes, "In fact, why should we even look for your Brethren Court buddies? I'm not putting my life in the hands of pirates..."

"Beckett, look," Elizabeth sighed and ran a hand through her hair, "I really can't think of any other place where I'll be safe then with my allies—who are the pirates. You _know_ that that's where my allegiances lie." She looked at him for a moment. He pressed his lips together stubbornly and looked away across the brig. "Beckett," she said, going for a new angle, "I care a lot more about William then I care about you. I am doing what's best for him. If you don't want to come—then don't come!"

"I'm not working on board a pirate ship," Beckett snapped, "Not of my own free will."

"What is it with you and your vendetta against pirates?" Elizabeth demanded, slightly shocked. He would even split with her—his only ally—to avoid going on board a pirate vessel? That was just mad!

"Oh, just the fact that they _blew me up_, and will probably do the same the second the first three syllables of my name come out of your mouth!" Beckett rolled his eyes, "I've branded, killed and imprisoned _thousands_ of pirates in my time, Elizabeth; they're hardly going to all forgive and forget, are they?"

"Then... why not just go along with Leonard's lie?" Elizabeth shrugged at Beckett's expression, "I mean, pirates are rather stupid—with the exception of Jack Sparrow," she fiddled with a sleeve, "They'll probably believe what the papers say."

"With the exception of Jack Sparrow, who—oh!—happens to be the one that hates me the most!" Beckett gave a mocking smile, "Jolly good, Elizabeth!"

"He came to see us on the island; and as far as I can tell, he didn't seem to mind," Elizabeth knew that she was exaggerating a tiny bit, "He let you live, at least!" Beckett rolled his eyes.

"After you made up some complete bollocks about you holding me hostage to hand over to the Company!" he argued.

"No, I told the truth afterwards—and he still didn't kill you," Elizabeth insisted, though she knew that Jack had been itching to do so. "As long as I tell him not to, he wont, see? He trusts me. Apart from with his rum, that is," Elizabeth tagged the last sentence on the end because lying always played on her conscience. And she had lied a _tiny_ bit for this entire explanation.

"I'm dead," Beckett shrugged exaggeratedly, "I'm dead already."

"Oh, shut it," Elizabeth rolled her eyes, "There'll be some way around it. And anyway—Tortuga will be safe. If you are _so_ desperate to not join the pirates, I suppose you can think of something _better_ in Tortuga!"

"Better?" Beckett shook his head, almost sadly, "As if my life is going to go anywhere from here."

There was a slightly uncomfortable pause.

"You still have a lot of your life left," Elizabeth said, in as kind a tone as she could manage to Cutler Beckett, which was incredibly difficult for her, "There are lots of things you could do."

"Cross out 'piracy', and what does that leave?" Beckett rolled his eyes, "I'm never going to get my old life back—and that's all that I know. And with Lord Leonard spreading more lies about me every day, and me on my way to Tortuga—what's it going to look like?"

"Is that why you didn't want to go to Tortuga?"

"Eh. No. It just sounds like a generally horrible place."

"Piracy isn't that bad," Elizabeth said, shrugging. In reply, he shot her a look so incredulous that she wouldn't have been surprised if it had blown her backwards. "Truly, it isn't."

"So pirates are _good_?" Beckett asked, folding his arms, "Blowing up innocent merchant ships and making off with their loot is a _good_ thing now? I'm sure you must understand by now that piracy is hopelessly romanticized."

"Perhaps 'good' isn't the right word," Elizabeth admitted.

"There isn't anything on this entire earth that will convince me to become a pirate, Elizabeth," Beckett said with a scowl, "And you can't change that."

"Would you become a pirate if I asked you nicely?" Elizabeth asked, looking towards him. Their eyes met, and they simply looked at each other for a moment, in a way that friends sometimes do. Finally, Beckett spoke.

"Try it, and you will get a fork in your _eye_. That, I can promise you," he replied, calmly and diplomatically.

* * *

**NB:** Hmm... stowing away is risky... as Elizabeth should know by now. Thanks to all who reviewed! As for duettino, and others who may have wondered--yes, Elizabeth's insitance on Beckett's 'goodness' may be somewhat irritating; but she'll never stop believing! ;)

Extract from the next chapter: _Leonard was still unsatisfied. He wanted to find him, and finally just kill him!_


	40. Benevolence

FORTY: Benevolence

He was gone. He had simply _vanished_.

Lord Leonard knew that Beckett must be _somewhere_—but he'd been missing for so long now that people were simply losing interest. And it made Leonard's blood boil; Beckett had gotten away with it. Or so it seemed... the news that Beckett had murdered his own mother had been met with much horror, and a bit of scepticism; he supposed that it had been a bit of a jump, but people, in essence, believed what was shoved into their faces.

The hunt was still on—of course. But it was dying down, now. It was fading. The story had been going for nearly _four months_; of course the excitement was going to die. But it was simply impossible. Occasionally there would be a sighting, but most of them were just men that looked slightly like Beckett from behind, and occasionally a sighting that _might_ have been real... but he was nearly forgotten now.

Of course, the papers had gone crazy about his escape. But for the few days of excitement about Beckett's escape from the asylum and his mother's death (which had been labelled as his fault, though lots of people had started questioning the proof of that, especially as he had gone to rescue her once before), Beckett and Elizabeth had been safely sheltered at his empty country manor.

Still, Beckett had vanished; Leonard would certainly keep an eye out for him, of course, but it seemed that his position was secure enough now. But he was still unsatisfied. He wanted to find him, and finally just kill him! There was no proof that he was alive now, of course, but Leonard was quite certain that he wasn't dead.

Not good enough.

But he was running out of tactics now. Beckett could be _anywhere_. The only method that seemed worth using now was plastering posters everywhere he could and then hoping... and that wasn't very professional, was it? Still; Beckett was out of his hair, for now. If he began stirring things up again (Leonard suspected that Beckett may journey to London and try to talk it over with various allies over there), he could always send a few dragoons or even an assassin after him.

Speaking of assassins... Lord Leonard picked up a quill, and began to write.

----------

"We've ported..."

"Are we at Tortuga?"

"I doubt it..."

"How would you know?" Elizabeth asked, frowning. Beckett looked towards her through the gloom.

"While you were sleeping, I was keeping a track of time. And I don't think we've been travelling for long enough, see?" he smiled patronizingly. Elizabeth, however, wasn't convinced.

"It's been a few _days_," she shrugged, "You can't keep a track of everything."

"You can go and take a look if you like," Beckett said easily, leaning back against the wall of the brig, which was slightly damp, "I say we have until this evening to arrive. Maybe a little bit less." Elizabeth frowned at him, pressed William into his hands, and then strode towards the ladder out of the brig.

She didn't like it down there—it was damp and dark and stuffy. Sticking her head through the hatch, she looked around surreptitiously. The deck appeared empty. It was about lunchtime, and the sun was high in the sky... Elizabeth looked over towards the port, and saw that they weren't in Tortuga, after all. How would she know? Well... let's just say that you can _tell_ when you're in Tortuga.

"What are you doing, girl?" a heavily accented voice suddenly asked, grabbing her by the scruff of her neck and dragging her up. Elizabeth couldn't help but shriek, and then she covered her mouth and looked at the man.

"Who are you?" she demanded haughtily, in her Pirate King voice.

"I thinkI should be asking the same," the pirate peered at her, "Stowing away?" Elizabeth sighed, and looked at him.

"My name is Elizabeth Swann, and I am the former Pirate King!" Elizabeth nodded proudly, "Now tell me your name, and your allegiance."

"Tiburcio," the pirate frowned at her, seeming slightly disbelieving, "The _Pipsqueak_ is belonging to the fleet of Captain Eduardo Villanueva, Pirate Lord of the Adriatic Sea. And you say you are... Pirate King, hmm?"

"The ex-pirate king, I resigned my position," Elizabeth nodded, hoping that this would work. It was good that this man was part of a fleet of a Pirate Lord, but that didn't guarantee her safety by any means. She looked towards him. "I wasn't sure whether to trust you or not, so I stowed away. I'm wanted by the redcoats here... very badly."

"Posters, I see them around—eight thousand guineas bounty for your capture," Tiburcio nodded.

"You wouldn't hand me in, would you?" Elizabeth asked.

"No... our honour!" Tiburcio spluttered, seeming offended. Elizabeth bowed her head to him slightly in thanks. "We hear sounds—down in the brig—in the night, not sure if it was people or ghost," he smiled slightly, "When Captain Heraclio returns, I speak to him, hmm?" He seemed to believe her more, now.

"Thank you," Elizabeth smiled at him, "Where is everyone?"

"Gone to mainland, for supplies—I been left to watch the _Pipsqueak_," Tiburcio nodded, "Thinking I hear voices." He looked down towards the brig, fairly pointedly.

"Do you think your captain will be kind to me?" Elizabeth asked. Tiburcio seemed nice—but captains, especially serving under Pirate Lords, were generally a lot more strict. Tiburcio seemed to consider this for a moment.

"Not sure," he admitted, "I think he will be... hmm... annoyed? Heraclio is not very... ah... nice. He whips a lot, and makes us dislocate our shoulders so we can escape quicker, and not give away positions under torture, like that kind of... not kind, eh?" Elizabeth could decipher what he was saying, but he had a very thick accent, which could possibly make the reader not understand the important plot point in that sentence (whoops—there I go, giving things away again).

"I see," Elizabeth sighed, and then looked back to him, "How far from Tortuga are we, here?" Tiburcio paused again, as if sorting things out in his mind. He wasn't very good at numbers in English.

"Evening, we will be there," he said. Elizabeth hated it when Beckett was right. "We are ported at Hispaniola; Île de la Tortue is only about six hours by ship, from here, Cap-Haïtien..."

"I see," Elizabeth said, deciphering his broken English. Île de la Tortue was the 'proper' name for Tortuga; French, apparently. "If I were to leave this vessel here, how could I get there?" Tiburcio blinked at her, and she added, "If you would let me leave, that is."

"Port-de-Paix is nearest port to the isle," Tiburcio said, "About six, ten miles from here." Elizabeth perked up.

"Just six or ten miles?" She asked. Tiburcio seemed to think a moment.

"Ah, no, very sorry... sixty. Sixty miles," Tiburcio shrugged apologetically. Elizabeth bit her lip; a sixty mile walk to the closest port to Tortuga? That wasn't promising.

"Could you do me a favour, Tiburcio?" Elizabeth asked, in a pleading voice. He looked at her seriously for a moment, and she continued, "Please let me and my friend stow away to Tortuga. We have to get away from here, or we'll be killed. I don't want to get into trouble with your captain—we don't have time," she sighed, "Please don't rat us out?"

"I, ah, don't know," he replied uncertainly.

"Your captain will never know," Elizabeth said, "You can just deny that you know of our existence. But we must hurry to Tortuga," she looked at him pleadingly. After another moment, finally, he nodded his head slightly.

"I will, but you must be quiet as the mouse!" Tiburcio shook his head slightly, "If you are discovered, the captain will want to blame someone." Elizabeth took one of his hands in hers, gratefully.

"Thank you, Tiburcio," she said, "I will remember this."

"Yes, miss," Tiburcio's solemn face suddenly grinned slightly, though there were undertones of nervousness to it, "I am thinking Captain Heraclio is unfair, anyway," he nodded, "At Tortuga, though, you must be very sneaky!" he made little mousey gestures with his hands, and Elizabeth laughed. She smiled at him.

"Thank you, Tiburcio," she said gratefully, "I think you're one of the nicest pirates I've met."

"There are a lot of nice pirates," Tiburcio said, "But they try to hide it... eh?"

Elizabeth knew just what he meant.

----------

"You took your time," Beckett yawned, examining a barrel of biscuits, which he did not touch.

"You were right. We'll reach Tortuga this evening," Elizabeth smiled at him, and sat down, pulling William from his grasp. Beckett frowned at her, perhaps wondering how she could be so sure. She simply smiled in return.

"I'm always right," Beckett said smugly. Elizabeth rolled her eyes and ticked William under the chin. Typical.

* * *

**NB:** Ah, Tiburcio... my OCs tend to crash and burn, but my lovely beta (delta, gamma) seemed to think Tiburcio was all right so... meep? Oh, and there probably won't be an update tomorrow, as it's Christmas and all, so... I hope you all have a wonderful, wonderful Christmas and get everything you want! Ah, and trouble ahead... trouble of the amusing sort!

Extract from the next chapter: _"What are you doing?" Beckett demanded, his clipped tones becoming somewhat slurred towards the end, before his vision blurred and everything faded away into darkness._


	41. Witchcraft

FORTY-ONE: Witchcraft

Beckett looked on solemnly as a rum bottle smashed into the wall directly above his head, splintering into a thousand sharply glittering pieces. How demure he was acting in the midst of a Tortugan bar made Elizabeth laugh—he stood out here more then anywhere. But lots of people here stood out; and nobody suspected anything.

"I must say, Tortuga isn't what I was expecting—it's worse," Beckett said, tightly. He obviously hated the place already.

"I am a bit worried about William," Elizabeth admitted.

She'd asked the barmaid about any medical help that could be offered around here; apparently there was some sort of witch-doctor who helped with 'cleansing souls' and 'soothing minds', which seemed to fit the description well enough. Now she just had to convince Beckett to let a strange woman practice magic on him... which would be very hard indeed.

"You haven't done much searching for your dear crew," Beckett said, "Have you changed your mind?" He sounded hopeful.

"Not at all," Elizabeth said, leaping to her feet, "But I know a good place that we can go now. Follow me, and try not to do something stupid, please?" Beckett looked slightly insulted, and followed behind her soundlessly.

She had gotten directions from the barmaid, and after a short walk through many alleyways filled with drunks, they arrived at a small, tumbledown shack. There was a star scraped onto the wood of the door—this was the place. Beckett was looking at her questioningly, but followed her anyway as she pushed the door open and walked in.

The smell of herbs and scented candles nearly knocked her out as she wandered in; there were some tattered sofas, odd pictures on the wall, and a curtain of beads that led to another room. There was also a cabinet full of weird artefacts. It reminded her a little bit of Tia Dalma's shack... but sort of... different. Things seemed arranged here, like it was a _deliberate_ mess.

"What is this place?" Beckett hissed.

"It... belongs to Thera Mercy, a witch doctor," Elizabeth said, eventually. Beckett turned to heel, and made to walk out of the door, but Elizabeth grabbed his shoulder and steered him back.

"That was my bad shoulder," Beckett said moodily—though it hadn't hurt too much. At the asylum, they'd seen to it, and made sure it was properly cleaned and dressed; as it was now. It was healing much faster as a result, and felt much better.

"Sorry," Elizabeth said offhandedly, before continuing, shifting William so that his chin was resting on her shoulder, looking behind her, "Look, Beckett, you might as well try it! What could we lose?"

"Do I even need to _answer_ that?" Beckett demanded, unhappily. Then, a sudden realization seemed to hit him. "You think I'm crazy!" he no longer kept his tone hushed, and he pointed an accusing finger towards her, "You brought me here to cure my so-called insanity! Didn't you?"

"Beckett-," Elizabeth started, only to be cut off.

"How could you?" Beckett asked her, pouting. Elizabeth merely rolled her eyes. "Witch-doctors aren't the most reliable people in the world! I could die an excruciating death!"

"Good!" Elizabeth retorted.

"Hello?" They both turned towards the voice, and found a lady watching them from the beaded doorway. She had red hair that was in a wavy, tangled mass that nearly reached her waist, and had a lot of make up on. She was in a dress that was both shiny and ragged at the same time—and the logic of that gave Beckett a headache. She was quite short, skinny as a rake, gangly and angular. Her skin was slightly blotchy.

"Are you Thera Mercy?" Elizabeth asked.

"Indeed I am," she smiled, revealing a set of crooked teeth, most of them encased in a golden filling, through bright red lipstick, "Is this man here to see me, then?"

"So you assume _I'm_ the customer?" Beckett scowled at her, "Do I _look_ like a stark raving lunatic to you?" Thera looked unsure how to react for a moment, so decided to just smile confidently. Witch-doctors were not supposed to falter or be unsure how to react, after all.

"Yes... it's him," Elizabeth said, stifling a laugh. Beckett was practically glowing with indignity. "I'm afraid he's a little bit unwilling... but I think I would appreciate all of the help that you could give him." Beckett shot her a poisonous look.

"You can't make me!" he finally said, in the way of five-year-olds everywhere.

"Hush, now, don't cause a fuss," Elizabeth said, as if talking to a baby. She laughed at his expression. "Look, it can't do any harm, can it? Just have a try at it. If you don't think you're crazy, just think of it as... peace of mind, will you?" Elizabeth gave him an imploring look, and he sighed.

"Fine," he muttered, "But if I end up dead, or covered in feathers, or with my liver being pulled out," he glared at her, "You will pay!"

"Alright," Elizabeth rolled her eyes and turned to Thera, "How much?"

"A fair price is all I ask," she said, holding her hand out. Elizabeth tipped a couple of lavish rings into her hand—another few pieces of treasure from Beckett's safe. Beckett looked resentful, but didn't say anything. "Thank you," Thera said, her eyes shining with the greedy glitter of gold. Her entire demeanour changed at the sight of money; she looked to Beckett with the same hungry expression, probably wondering how much money he had on his person, and various ways of getting them _off_ of his person. "You can come back in three hours, and I will be done," she plunged the rings into a pocket somewhere, and turned to Beckett. "Come through, now," she said softly.

"So I don't need to be here? Excellent," Elizabeth smiled, "Then I can go and get searching, can't I?"

"Don't leave me here," Beckett said, looking aghast, "It's bad enough that you've put me in for an appointment with this madwoman." Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

"Good_bye_," she said, pointedly, before turning and walking out of the door.

"This way, mister...?" Thera tilted her head.

"Hunter," Beckett said automatically, following her through the beaded curtains with a sense of foreboding. He felt that he wasn't going to like this...

And he was right.

----------

First, they sat down and had a little chat. Beckett sat, bored, not really listening to anything she was saying. It was mostly utter garbage about healing crystals and the seventh powers and the magic of herbs... right. Beckett only really began paying attention when the strange woman grabbed his leg. He jumped in his seat, and stared at her, looking positively violated. This lady had _no_ sense of personal space whatsoever.

What followed was thoroughly unenjoyable for Beckett. He had to eat things like crushed beetles and sheep eyes and raw eggwhites. And something that he was quite sure was leather. He'd wrinkled his nose at it, and flat-out refused to eat some of the other, more obscene foods.

Then the lack of personal space came back with a vengeance as she 'read his face', i.e., shoved her face into his and blathered on about 'loss' and 'love' and 'fear'. Eventually he prised himself away from her, and looked around himself once more. Thera had gone to a cupboard, and was bringing out some more items. Great.

She lit a candle, and began reciting strange things, speaking in a weird sing-song voice, in some crazy moon language that he suspected she was making up on the spot. Beckett simply glared at her. Quite suddenly, she grabbed him by the hair (which made him internally explode with the indecency of it all) and shoved his face towards the candle. He looked incredulously from the candle to Thera and back again, wondering what on earth this was doing—when he began feeling a little bit woozy.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his clipped tones becoming somewhat slurred towards the end, before his vision blurred and everything faded away into darkness.

----------

When he woke up, he felt heavy. Very heavy indeed. He wondered if this was a side-effect of the drugged candle scent, and opened his eyes. Or tried to. He moved a hand to his face—with much clattering—and brushed some stones out of his eyes. Then he sat up, and a cascade of stones poured off of him, rattling to the hard floor loudly. His entire body was covered in gemstones! 'Healing crystals' of jade and amethyst and other such things that gleamed in the faint light...

Thera was sitting in a comfortable chair, and had quickly slipped a book titled '_How the Inner Eye Works_' down behind the cushion, and rose to her feet gracefully, holding out her arms.

"Do you feel well-rested, Hunter?" she asked in a soft voice.

"I feel irritated," Beckett said, narrowing his eyes, "Why did you knock me out and cover me in stones?"

"It's to help you," Thera smiled, "You should be near healed, now. Come," she gestured for him to step closer to her. Beckett wasn't too happy for this, because—knowing her—she would insist on talking to him nose-to-nose, which was not a method that he enjoyed. Especially with someone with breath as bad as Thera Mercy. Hygiene was obviously not something taught at the school of witch-doctors.

"I'm fine here, actually," Beckett said, with as much dignity as he could muster. He was playing along with this, but he was _not_ happy. He would get Elizabeth for this.

"I think you are a man possessed, Hunter," Thera said, stepping close to him and shoving her bug-eyed face up close to his own face. Beckett leaned his upper body away from her slightly, in order to be able to focus on her properly, for a start, when she suddenly grabbed him by his shoulders. "We need to get the demon out."

"I am _not_ possessed by a demon!" Beckett said, looking equal parts offended, contemptuous and annoyed. He also did not like the tightness of her grip... he was becoming seriously apprehensive.

"There is but one way," Thera said, and then suddenly grabbed his _ears_ and forced him into the most nausea-inducing kiss that Beckett had ever had the displeasure to be involved in. She tasted of bitter, salt and camels. Pulling backwards only resulted in both of them being dragged, until he was nearly falling over. For a moment all he could do was flail his arms, completely and utterly disgusted; then, finally, he roughly placed one hand on her forehead, one hand on her chin, and prised her off of his face. He was certain that he heard a wet _popping_ sound as he detached her from him.

"Eugh!" Beckett flinched horribly, rubbing his mouth with a hand. He felt his bottom lip. "You bit me!"

"We must exorcise the demon," Thera said in her lunatic voice, grabbing his shoulder, "It's the only way!" Beckett stared at her as if she were crazy. She _was_ crazy, he decided. He could only shoot her a look of complete contempt. The penny dropped—she was after money. She wasn't a real witch-doctor at all.

"You disgusting wretch!" Beckett finally snapped, "I am _going_! I have never been so insulted in all of my life! Or _revolted_!" With that, he turned and stormed out of the room, the beaded curtain jangling behind him. Thera blinked, standing there dumbly for a moment, in a way that was not supposed to happen to witch-doctors.

After a moment, the curtain of beads was pushed aside, and Beckett reappeared, throwing something small and golden to the floor. He still looked outraged.

"And you can have your filling back, too!" he snapped, before turning to heel and striding out once more.

* * *

**NB:** Hee hee. I hope your Christmas was lovely! Sorry for the lateness in update--business and suchlike. You know how it is, ha ha. So... yes. I decided to have fun with this OC. Who shalt pop up again... 

Extract from the next chapter: _"Oh, shut up," Beckett said, waving an arm, "I'm not talking to you right now. You are so uncivilized." Elizabeth shook her head, still smiling._


	42. Quarrelling

FORTY-TWO: Quarrelling

Whilst Beckett was having trouble with the witch-doctor, Elizabeth had a mission of her own. Holding William securely, she decided that she had to try and find an ally. She remembered Tiburcio with a surge of warmth; how friendly he had been! She needed someone who would transport her to Singapore—or, if she was in luck, perhaps one or more of Tai Huang's crews were ported in Tortuga at that very moment.

She asked around a little, but apparently she had missed an Asian-looking by a few days. Sighing, she realized that there was little she could do but hole up here and wait for the next crew to come along—she was sure that it wouldn't be too long. Every pirate was drawn to Tortuga at some point or another.

While she was there, she decided that she might as well investigate some of Jack Sparrow's favourite haunts, in case he happened to be around. She didn't think so—after all, he had left her island like a man with a mission—but she knew that Jack was rather fond of the rum and the company here. So she trawled through a few pubs and even a brothel, though she received no results.

So, then, she decided that she would go and find a decent-looking inn, bag rooms for both her and Beckett, and then they would sit tight and wait for someone recognizable to come along. As she wandered down the streets, rather tired from all of the walking that she had done that day, Beckett suddenly strode up to her, looking fairly annoyed.

"Cutler?" Elizabeth blinked, "You're not meant to leave Thera for another hour, at least!"

"Well, I left early, and I am _never_ going back there _again_!" Beckett fumed, prodding her in the shoulder, "If you ever have another bright little idea like that again in your simple little life, don't act on it. Just don't."

Elizabeth, initially, was annoyed with him; but at the outrage on his face, her scolding words left her and she faltered into a laugh.

"It's not funny," Beckett seethed, his voice quiet once more, "That madwoman wasn't curing me at all. Manhandling me, yes; molesting me, yes! I think that she thought raping me would be the best way to get my 'demons' out." Beckett wrinkled his nose, looking disgusted, "'Demons' indeed," he muttered.

"She what?" Elizabeth blinked, letting out a surprised laugh, "So _that's_ what you've been doing for the past two hours?" Beckett glared at her.

"No, because I somehow managed to fight off her advances," Beckett hissed. "I should have guessed, really, when she made a grab for my leg!" Elizabeth's eyebrows rose considerably.

"Well, then, she _must_ be insane," Elizabeth agreed, "To make advances on _you_!"

"Ha-ha-ha... not funny!" Beckett glared at her, "Why did you think it would be such a brilliant idea to strand me with a crazy lady-rapist?!"

"I don't think lady-rapists are physically possible," Elizabeth swung her free arm and kept that annoyingly teasing tone to her voice.

"Well, it's a good thing, too!" Beckett snapped, "Or else I would have been doomed!" He folded his arms as they walked, "I feel filthy and defiled," he murmured, rubbing his arms as if trying to wipe dirt off of himself. Elizabeth rolled her eyes at his theatrics.

"It was like a present," Elizabeth shrugged, "I thought I'd give you your sanity back."

"The only 'present' I got was her repulsive fillings in my mouth!" Beckett retorted, "What if I've picked up some hideous disease from her? She was meant to be 'cleansing' me, not the opposite," he paused, "And for the books, I am _perfectly sane_!

"Her fillings in your mouth?" Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, "Thanks for all of the information, Beckett! What were you _doing_ in there?"

"She just... _jumped_ on me!" Beckett held his arms out helplessly, "I had to practically use all of my strength to prise her off!" As Elizabeth laughed, Beckett glowered at her, "She was _stronger_ then she _looked_!"

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Beckett," Elizabeth said with a smirk. Beckett sighed, managing to control himself now. His dramatics were over.

"So what've you been doing?" he finally asked, with forced calmness. He also kept on rubbing his lip, Elizabeth was amused to note—but she decided not to mention it. He was in enough of a state about the 'Thera Incident' as it was; she didn't want to give him a reason to go on about it _more_.

Elizabeth quickly explained the situation, and Beckett made a sound much like 'hmmph', folding his arms obstinately.

"Come on, Beckett," Elizabeth said cheerily, jogging William up and down, "It won't be that bad, on a ship with me, trust me! You'll have your own cabin. You'll be sailing again—isn't that what you want?" Beckett didn't look tempted in the slightest. "You'll be on the ocean, sailing with me, maybe I'll trust you enough to put some men under your command..." _As if,_ Elizabeth thought, but didn't tell him that there wasn't a hope in hell of that.

"I don't want to sail with pirates," Beckett said, a touch snappily. Elizabeth decided to go with the 'Jack Sparrow' angle.

"What you've never had," Elizabeth said, sighing, "Is freedom. Am I right, or am I right?"

"Of course I had freedom," Beckett stared at her, "Apart from the time that you decided to keep me prisoner on your island—_then_ I didn't have freedom." Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

"You weren't free back when you were Lord Cutler 'Tea' Beckett," Elizabeth smirked, "I know upper-class life; believe it or not, I used to have one! And it was positively stifling. I'm glad I escaped, and I don't know why on earth you would want to go back to it."

"You may have found upper-class life 'stifling', but I did not. I found it terribly interesting," Beckett shrugged, "But I suppose I was a man, free to do as I liked; whereas what was expected of you was to marry some nice naval officer and pop out some little brats." He looked at William, "At least you managed the latter."

"Beckett!" Elizabeth smacked him on the shoulder; not too hard, though, "Stop being such a pillock, if you please."

"You're the plonk that decided to feed me to that horrible witch woman!" Beckett replied, looking faintly hurt. His face said; _how could you?_ Elizabeth just laughed. Such a strange man, was Cutler Beckett.

"_Plonk_? I haven't been called that in... since... well, I've _never_ been called that! I vaguely remember eleven-year-olds using it, though!" she sneered, "As for me 'feeding' you to that witch woman... well, good for her! I expect she's licking her lips now, thinking, 'mmm—tastes of stuck-up snob!'" Beckett pulled a sour face, and Elizabeth just grinned.

She found it really quite odd that Beckett had led to so much amusement on her part. True, she was laughing more _at_ him then with him, but still... she sighed, and turned to him.

"I'm glad you came with me," she smiled.

"Oh, shut up," Beckett said, waving an arm, "I'm not talking to you right now. You are so uncivilized." Elizabeth shook her head, still smiling.

----------

They stayed at an inn called the _Three-Way Tango_. No, it didn't make much sense. Beckett and Elizabeth got separate rooms this time; Beckett had rolled his eyes and muttered something about _finally being free_, but Elizabeth hadn't been convinced. They'd had some interesting midnight chats in their time.

Days passed, and there was no sign of any ally of Elizabeth's, but they were safe... safe-ish, in any case. Beckett still obviously hated Tortuga, she could tell by his face every time he stepped over some passed-out man in the gutters, and he still muttered mutinously about the 'Thera Incident' and all. But he was settling in... sort of... and Elizabeth was simply enjoying the feeling of being far away from it all.

All in all, life was good. Life was bearable. It was almost fun.

But things change...

* * *

**NB:** Ah, sloppiness with updating, much apologies! I love Elizabeth-Beckett banter. It's one of the highlights of writing this story. Oh, and also... I have a surprise for you next chapter!

Extract from the next chapter: _"Oh, no," Beckett murmured, horrified._


	43. Onwards!

FORTY-THREE: Onwards!

It was their eleventh night there when things changed.

Beckett, Elizabeth and William were all sitting around a scarred table near the back of a pub called the _Greasy Panther_. Beckett had to wonder at the names of pubs and inns at this place, really, he did. Anyhow, Elizabeth cradled William to her and occasionally helped herself to a peanut from a small tin container on the table, and Beckett had just had his second encounter with rum.

He didn't enjoy it any more then he had the first time, and left it unfinished.

"Why are those women staring at you?" Elizabeth asked, raising an eyebrow.

"They are entranced by my good looks," Beckett rolled his eyes and shrugged, "How am I supposed to know?" Towards the front of the bar, three women—who looked to be prostitutes—were stood together in a clump, their eyes fixed on their table, though they would occasionally pretend otherwise.

"Did you do something stupid while you were up there?" Elizabeth asked suspiciously. He had gone to get his rum—he'd been less then a minute gone—but she could safely bet that he had done something idiotic.

"Psht, no. I don't do stupid things," Beckett said airily. Elizabeth laughed out loud at this one, for a long time. Beckett frowned slightly as her laughs died out.

"Come on, you must have done something strange," Elizabeth said, as the women all exchanged a quick, hushed conversation, and then began making their way across the room. Beckett rolled his eyes, though he looked slightly wary of the three ladies of the night. He did not want any more run-ins with demented women, thank you very much.

"I just bought my rum and paid," he shrugged, "And what a waste of money it was, too."

"Waste of money? Oh, you didn't pay with a guinea, did you?" Elizabeth turned and gave him a long-suffering, almost pitying look. Beckett didn't deny it. "You idiot," Elizabeth said softly, "Don't draw attention to ourselves, I said—and now everyone in the entire pub thinks you're rich, and throwing your money away!"

"It's just a guinea," Beckett wrinkled his nose, "I thought it would draw more attention to ourselves to ask for change."

"You told the barman to _keep the change_?" Elizabeth shook her head in exasperation, "Good God, Beckett, you're an idiot!" Most people find Old English money confusing. However, Beckett and Elizabeth—who used Old English money—did not find it confusing. That was a good thing, I suppose, or they would have been in a bit of trouble. The thing about the guinea is—though it's worth roughly the same as one pound (it was one pound and one shilling, to be exact), it was thought of as... a 'gentlemanly' form of money. Rich people traded with guineas; it was almost like a type of coin reserved for 'artistes'.

So, obviously, Beckett had plenty of them. What would be the point in using 'normal' money, after all? However, they may draw a bit of attention in a place like Tortuga... the three prostitutes reached their table, and stood, fiddling with the tops of their corsets and preening in general.

"Hey, big spender," one of them said in a cockney accent. Elizabeth resisted the urge to roll her eyes once more. _Whores—always after the money,_ she thought.

"Are you talking to me?" Beckett asked, incredulously. All three nodded.

"Are you two together?" Another of the prostitutes slid her eyes somewhat disdainfully towards Elizabeth, as if she were an unwanted guest. Elizabeth resented this.

"Yes," Elizabeth snapped, "Get lost."

"Ooh, touchy," the prostitutes all smirked at each other, and one of them winked roughly at Beckett, "We'll be sein' ya, boy," the prostitute who had spoken before drawled, and after pausing to glance around the table (undoubtedly for any more signs of money), walked away. Beckett's expression could only be described as 'please don't hurt me', until he covered it up with an indifferent cough.

"That was oddly reminiscent of being ambushed," Beckett said, watching them stalk away.

"Yes, yes," Elizabeth said, watching Beckett closely. She'd been hoping that he would go the colour of an overripe tomato, but he failed to—he simply looked indifferent, though he'd seemed almost scared of them beforehand; or at least freaked out by them, to use modern dialect. "I don't want to see you bringing back prostitutes to the inn," she wagged a finger, "It'll be a bad influence on William!"

"Eugh," Beckett wrinkled his nose, "As if I'd want to run the risk of catching a disease off of one of the members of Tortuga's Whore Club; of which there are many, many members..."

"Do you just automatically assume that everyone you come across here has some sort of terrible infection?" Elizabeth asked, in a slightly amused tone.

"Of course," Beckett said, pulling his sleeve straight, "Most of them do."

And then, someone very familiar strode in the door. Elizabeth opened her mouth, closed it again, and then finally opened it once she had made her mind up. She jumped to her feet.

"Hey, Jack!" she called out. This was a bad idea—soon, almost everyone had turned towards the infamous Captain. He quickly tip-toed across to Elizabeth (he didn't, however, fool anyone; everyone was staring at him as he moved as quietly as he could) and shot her a disapproving look.

"Don't you know I owe everyone 'ere money, Lizzie?" he asked imploringly, gesturing wildly around him, "I don't need you shouting out my name for all to hear."

Cutler Beckett had sank downwards in his seat and appeared to be trying very hard to not be spotted.

It didn't work.

"Beckett?" Jack asked, whistling, "Did you know there's a ten-thousand guinea price tag on your 'ead?" (Yes. Leonard also dealt in guineas.)

"Yes, thank you," Beckett said, mock-pleasantly.

"There are a lot of people 'ere who would hand you over in an instant," Jack raised an eyebrow. Beckett strongly suspected that Jack was one of those people. He looked to Elizabeth, who was still holding William. "What're you doing still 'anging about with him, eh?"

"It's complicated," Elizabeth shrugged, "What're you doing in Tortuga, Jack?"

"Do you even need to ask?" Beckett muttered from his seat.

"I," Jack paused to shoot a somewhat dubious look at Beckett, "Am taking a well-deserved break."

"Oh?" Elizabeth leaned back against the table; she had stood up to call out to Jack, and was not sat yet. Beckett was now in an ordinary position, sitting up in his seat with his eyebrows drawn downwards. Jack stood in front of Elizabeth, a bottle of rum that he had swiped off of a table held aloft in one hand. "Should I ask?"

"Depends," Jack shrugged, and grinned slightly, "Feel up for an adventure?" He began mentally going through the pros and cons of having Elizabeth with him. Hmm...

"Life's been enough of an adventure as it is," Elizabeth said with an exhausted laugh, "I'm looking for a way to contact Tai Huang. Have you heard of his whereabouts?" Jack paused for a moment, putting a finger to his chin as he thought.

"Nope," he finally said brightly, which was not strictly truthful (see: a lie) and then pulled up a chair and sat down, opposite to Beckett, who looked faintly distasteful, but said nothing. Elizabeth sat down too.

"How've things been?" Elizabeth asked in a conversational tone. She wasn't sure how to ask if there was any way to hitch a lift with him. "Do you have a boat?"

"A dinghy, yes," Jack said, equally conversationally, though he—like Elizabeth—was thinking up of many ways to use it to his advantage, should Elizabeth decide to come with him. Then again, there was William, who may be a disadvantage. His dinghy wouldn't do; he'd have to pinch a slightly bigger ship; but with some well-placed help from Elizabeth (and perhaps even, blegh, Beckett), that should be fine, shouldn't it?

What he needed, really, was a ship and a crew. That would be very much appreciated, to get what he wanted; which at the moment, of course, was the Aqua de Vida. Which had turned out to be a bit of a puzzler, so far. Elizabeth—ex-Pirate King, with a Pirate Lord who owed her one—would probably be able to get him a ship and a crew very easily. Not only that, but she could help him with the search. Hmm...

"I see," Elizabeth said, lightly. Beckett looked from Jack to Elizabeth, and then back to Jack again, rather slyly. Suddenly, he seemed to realize where this was going.

"Oh, no," he murmured.

Oh, _yes_.

----------

It was no _Black Pearl_. Certainly, it was bigger then his previous dinghy, but that didn't say too much. Jack, Elizabeth and Beckett all looked at the smallish sloop, with varying expressions on their faces. Elizabeth looked doubtful. Jack looked proud. Beckett looked bored. William wasn't looking at the smallish sloop, so doesn't really count in that list. He had his face in Elizabeth's shoulder, and was gurgling to himself.

It was a small boat; however, it was still, in essence, a dinghy. It had a small below-deck area where items could be stored, which was always nice. An improvement, at least. The sails were larger, and there was a lot more space. Space for, say, four or even (good heavens!) five people. Thick hide tarpaulin to fend the weather off should it get too bad (which was doubtful, as it was early June; how time flies!) and, of course, the much-needed bottles of rum.

"Jack," Elizabeth said slowly, "You aren't considering sailing to Singapore in this, are you?"

"No, not to Singapore—to the Singapor_eans_! They're not so far away, just off the coast of eastern Cuba; a mere skip across some open seas!" Jack waved his arm, in the way he often did when he was mildly amplifying (see: exaggerating) something.

"And this will hold us all?" Elizabeth asked, looking doubtful.

"Us all?" Beckett demanded, "_I'm_ not going _anywhere_."

"Weren't you the one wanting to get away from Tortuga, with all of the _scary_ witch-women?" Elizabeth asked, in a teasing tone. Beckett scowled, and Jack shot Elizabeth an enquiring look. Elizabeth simply shook her head.

"Well, I don't think I'd be that unhappy to leave our dear friend Cutler behind... would you?" Jack raised his eyebrows at Elizabeth. She looked from Beckett to Jack, and then sighed, grabbing Jack with her free arm and dragging him a little to the side. Beckett pursed his lips, but didn't follow, simply watched a group of ragged boys run past.

"Beckett... isn't... _well_, Jack," Elizabeth said, quietly.

"Well, I know _that_," Jack put his hands on his hips, and seemed to realize that Elizabeth wasn't joking. "And?" he enquired, in a more serious tone, "Does it matter? Do you want to _help_ him?" This was followed by a most impressive eyebrow-waggle.

"I want him to come with us," Elizabeth said, carefully, "He saved my life, in a way," she thought back to the burning barn, "He did his best," she finally shrugged.

"Oh, and that's going to convince me, is it?" Jack smiled easily, "I suppose we could always use an extra pair of hands, but... oy!" His point hadn't been that 'they could always use an extra pair of hands but oy'. He had said 'oy' because Beckett had stepped onto the newly extensively borrowed (see: stolen) boat and seemed intent to cut the sails to pieces. Which never did help a ship to sail.

Elizabeth watched, slightly concerned, as Jack proceeded to knock Beckett out with a plank that he picked up from the harbour beneath them, much to the amusement of the same gaggle of boys who were now kicking a tin can around on the harbour (remember them now). He turned to Elizabeth, and shrugged. _I wonder if Beckett knows that it's the work of only half an hour or so to patch up a small sail?_ she wondered, a touch worriedly.

"We're going to be doing this the hard way, methinks," Jack grinned, throwing the unconscious Beckett into the dinghy in an unceremonious heap. Elizabeth looked from Jack to Beckett, and then sighed. Wasn't this journey going to be fun?

"You be nice to Beckett," Elizabeth warned Jack, "Or you are not getting a ship!" Jack seemed slightly put out by this, but nodded, and gave her one if his quick smiles.

"I'll treat him as me own brother," he said, "Good as gold... I swear."

----------

Beckett was not very happy.

I suppose it would be easy to work that out from the way that he was glaring at Jack from his place on board the small sloop, which was currently speeding through the ocean. Or perhaps 'speeding' was the wrong word. Still; they should arrive at the very eastern edge of Cuba in a day... or maybe two.

To be honest, Beckett could see reason in them tying him up, as he was very likely to throw a hissy fit and try to destroy the boat again. As you do. He had had the best of intentions at heart. _Anyway_... he could see reason in them tying him up, yes.

However, no matter how hard he thought about it, he could not come up with a single reason why they had found it necessary to _gag_ him as well. He let this be known through a fairly ferocious glare, aimed at Jack most of the time, but occasionally he looked towards Elizabeth, with the same, wounded, '_how could you?_' quality to it that he had used against her once before. Elizabeth smiled, somewhat apologetically.

"If you wont come peacefully, we're going to have to force you," Elizabeth sighed, patting him on the head, "Don't worry, once we're with Tai Huang and my allies, I can find a physician to see to you, and we'll think of something to do." She found it much easier to speak kindly to Cutler Beckett when he could not reply. And patronizing him was cruelly enjoyable.

_For the last time, I am _not_ insane!_ Beckett thought, angrily, and feeling very misunderstood indeed. Elizabeth was joking, surely? _She must be,_ he concluded, _she must be joking. This is all a big mistake—I'm a bit shaky for a couple of days, and Elizabeth jumps to conclusions! Silly cow..._

As Jack began to drum on the edge of the boat—probably just to annoy Beckett—and Elizabeth started feeding baby William with scoops of apple sauce once more, and Beckett simply glared at them all with pure poison from his bound-and-gagged position, the story draws to a conclusion. This storyline has ran out; as the Runaways was about Beckett and Elizabeth's life as outlaws. And that is about to end; it's about to turn into a story about their lives as _pirates_. However unwillingly.

A trilogy? Oh, please, no.

Then again...

Jack Sparrow, Cutler Beckett, Elizabeth Swann and William Turner Junior in a dinghy? Well, if that doesn't make for jolly good times, just what does? But, well—that's another story.

THE END.

SORT OF.

* * *

**NB:** ...SURPRISE! -dodges flying kitchen utensils-

Alright, alright, look--the original plot I had planned for Runaways is just much too long to fit into one story. I don't want a never-ending-story scenario with an 80-chapter whopper of a fanfic clogging up the boards. So I'm finishing this one here, and the next one--which is already in the making, by the way, and the plot is complete--will be put up as another story.

Also, sorry for my crapness with updates. Christmas is an impossibly busy time of year, isn't it? Gah! Anyhow, so this is where Runaways ends. Keeping with the theme, the third story in our installment (noooo! I promise it'll be the last one, I promise!) will be called The Adventurers, and will be up soon.

(oh, dear...)


End file.
